#everything is of my own jonathan at this point might as well be a damn oc

[cloudypariah]

How to perpetrate and sabotage your own kidnapping: A guide for dummies.

- The creation of the board (and its subsequent discovery)

Summary: Step One: host a brainstorming session with your teammates on how best to kidnap your future abductee. Step Two: have said abductee show up half an hour into the session and begin correcting your entire plan. Step Three: realise at the beginning of their impromptu presentation the target has absolutely no idea that they’re the target. Step Four: fail anyway.

Pairing: Dark!Poly!Task Force 141 x fem!Reader

Word count: 1.8k

Content tags: Dark content - Discussions around kidnapping, tense situations. If this is not your cup of tea, please go and find something different might better suited your palate. This is an 18+ fic meaning minors do not interact with this work. No one has permission from me to repost, copy or translate my work. No one has my permission to put my work into any AI source.

Notes: This is my first foray into the COD fandom and will be the first part in a dark comedy series. Please let me know what you think. Not proofread very well, sorry for any mistakes! Thanks for the motivation @live-love-be-unique !

Link to Task Force 141 masterlist / Link to COD masterlist

Captain John Price likes to think he knows his men well enough to trust them when his back is turned. Now that itself doesn’t necessarily mean knowing each and every one of their dirty secrets - he definitely wouldn’t come out smelling like fresh daisies if any number of his were revealed - but it does mean that he has the awareness to recognise that they all share one particular secret.

He sees it in the way Lieutenant Riley’s body language shifts when you give him his medical forms to look over, your consideration at offering him the option to disclose only certain personal information making the reserved soldier relax just enough to offer you a low thanks, accompanied with a stare that stretches on for a few moments longer than considered socially polite.

It’s also so amazingly obvious with Sergeant MacTavish. John’s surprised everyone else misses the way Soap’s smile takes a little longer to fade after departing for yet another mission, your swift congratulations on completing yet another physiotherapy appointment - “ Keep it up the good work big guy” - leaving the Scotsman floating on cloud nine damn near until the plane lands.

And how could he forget Sergeant Garrick? The man’s quick to change his tune and focus up, but the captain has observed Kyle absentmindedly rubbing his shoulder, thumb gingerly stroking the spot where your palm was only moments before, your figure long gone as you retreat down the corridor to where you came from.

No, Jonathan Price doesn’t miss a thing about his men. And it only takes two weeks and a long chat in the corner booth of the bar one quiet night - sans you or Laswell - before somehow his place becomes the meeting point for an unusual, though not unwelcome, topic - you.

More specifically, how to keep you.

The wooden shit box of a sports bar was where the first two facts were confirmed amongst them: 1. Every single one of the 141 men wanted you for themselves, but they weren’t above sharing. 2. You weren’t worth killing each other over, not when there was a much easier solution staring them in the face.

John’s house became the go-to place to discuss fact number three - They needed a plan.

It was Gaz who initially suggested the whiteboard after numerous interjections from Ghost and John; from everything to how to keep this from Laswell, to deciding which of your usual hangouts would provide them with the best opportunity to commence your “relocation”, to how to delicately but firmly explain said "relocation" to you once it was complete. Kyle loves his brothers in arms and never regrets a moment where his life is on the line if it means saving any one of them, but his patience began to wear thin when Soap got bored and started using goddamn paper planes instead of words to get his point across. At that Price finally relented and bought the damn thing.

Now, John was expecting you to pop by his place on Wednesday night to drop some papers off. A perfect opportunity, were it not for the fact that the gentlemen were still disagreeing on where to relocate you. However, it’ll allow you to grow more comfortable with him while he has some alone time with you, your presence like a balm on a wound - soothing and necessary (at least to him).

He had been looking forward to seeing you… tomorrow. So when you turn up not just on the doorstep but in the middle of the bloody hallway in his own bloody home halfway through the 141 “guys night”, his secondary action of shitting bricks quickly overrides his primary instinct to eliminate the threat.

He’s on his way back from the bathroom when he sees you standing, familiar folders firm in your grasp - fucking hell, is that his spare key too? - and a sour expression on your pretty face.

Your eyes narrow further when you spot him, striding over with fury rolling off you in small waves. “Captain Price, I know you did not leave these dossiers on my desk just before the end of my work day with a note stating they all need to be completed by the end of the work day.”

John’s senses are briefly overwhelmed by you being so close to him, the sight of you angry having a different effect on him than what you had originally intended. He’s never seen it before, and his hand twitches when you’re less than a foot away - fluctuating adrenaline or the desire to reach out and hold you, he’s not sure which is more prevalent. 

He always forgets to not be so obvious around you, but it isn’t as though you usually notice. (He’s not sure if the thought should make him feel sad or grateful.)

The sounds of his men arguing in the background, merely the next room over, are enough to bring reality crashing down hard.

His voice is deliberately loud and stalwart when replies. “You can’t be here.”

“Tough shit. Your lads night can wait.” You lean past him to the origin of what your gut was telling you was the sounds of the remaining 141 members quarreling. It’s easy to slip past Captain Price once your mind is set, the push of files against his chest preventing him from reacting for a few seconds - all the time you need to move down the hallway to where everyone else is bound to be.

John is quick to rush behind you, the arguing noises having swiftly changed to near cartoon-like crashes just moments before you enter the room. 

Ghost has migrated to the corner of the sitting area, standing as stiff as a fucking nutcracker, a mountain of crumpled notes and paper planes spilling out from between his arms. (His mask is still on thank god because it’ll hide exactly how caught out he feels, and if there’s one thing Simon Riley cannot stand it’s feeling like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar). His eyes instinctually watch your every move, waiting for your reaction.

Both of your gazes drift to the other side of the room, with neither of you failing to notice how the couch cushions are strewn widely across the space, (with one being stuck on top of a bookshelf for some odd reason) to find not one, but two soldiers gecko’d to the standing whiteboard.

Their demolitions expert is currently splayed out on the left side of the board and desperately grabbing the top of its metal frame, his stomach pressed into the cold porcelain and a left leg hitched up in a poor attempt to conceal the incriminating writing.

Price’s protégé is in a similar state. Dear Gaz has his back against the right side, with his arms outstretched to - much like Johnny - cover as much of their group planning as possible, a coloured marker clasped in each fist.

Two deers in headlights.

The sight of his task force is enough to bring back flashbacks of his original conversation with Kate about bringing these men together because Jesus H. Christ, what the fuck was he thinking?

There are a few moments when nobody moves or dares to breathe…

… except for you, of course.

You waste no time walking over to the two youngest members of the 141 as you attempt to shove them off the board. “Move,” you demand, palms pushing firmly against their sides. “I want to know what’s so important to everyone.” When they refuse, you do your best to stare at them, pleading with a pleasantly soft, “Please.”

Yeah, they both do what you say with ease when they hear that, giving you enough space to take in the somewhat smudged scribbles.

You miss the signal John gives Simon, the Ghost moving closer to your position as John quietly locks the door, and when your attention is drawn back to the board after the other two move you also miss all of the knowing looks shared behind your back. This was very far from ideal, but how can they recover from this?

They hope you understand that whatever comes next, they didn’t plan for it to start this way.

Kyle and John call your name but you ignore them, still processing the information written in front of you.

Johnny flexes his hands, preparing for the worst as you step back and say, “This is… bullshit.”

Every single member stops. That was not the reaction they were expecting.

Turning to face the group, you scoff. “I’m not even kidding. Firstly, you’re using guys' night to work, which is horrible for your mental and emotional health. And you should all know better.”

Four sets of brows furrow in united confusion. You don’t let that deter you from continuing, your arms gesturing haphazardly at the whiteboard. “Secondly, this is hands-down one of the worst brainstorms I have ever seen. This is not cohesive in the fucking slightest. Garrick, mark me.”

Kyle chokes on his spit, his brain short-circuiting before he sees your fingers wiggling at one of the markers he’s holding. The sergeant promptly gives it to you.

Your free hand takes turns pointing at everyone else in the room, a verbal command of, “sit down” directed at each man also. Dumbly and cautiously they all do. Ghost places himself at the end of the couch nearest the entrance, John strategically chooses a spot between yourself and the kitchen, and Soap and Gaz sit closest to you, where the two of them can hear you muttering under your breath as you draw what appears to be a massive cloud shape in the middle of the board.

Once completed, you fill your shape in with the word ‘TARGET’ and slam your free hand against the board. No one flinches, but if one were to look closely there would be some eyes widening in response. Johnny swears he sees one of your eyelids twitch.

“So,” you call out, “what do we know about the target?”

There are not only wide eyes looking at you, there are full glances exchanged between your audience.

“Seeing as you had the nerve to not invite me in your little meeting while keeping me on overtime” - Kyle and John squirm at that, and your finger makes a little circle - “we are going to be working on this project together. With all due respect, I’m not asking.”

Surely not…

And it’s when Captain John Price reviews the writing left over from the others that he realises Kyle and Johnny did one thing right during their clusterfuck of a coverup.

They managed to erase your name.

… you have absolutely no idea you are the target.

 A piece of writing far in the coroner catches your attention, and your shoulders slump. “The target likes knitting and ‘The Karate Kid’. In another life we would have been the best of friends.” A dramatic sigh leaves you, “Oh well, at least I’ll be able to give you some insight into the mindset of this individual. Any questions?”

Four hands shoot up.

Rubbing your hands together with glee, a maniac smile grows on your face. “Excellent.”

#dark!141 #poly 141 #darkfic #task force 141 x reader #dark task force 141 x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #john price x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #sergeant kyle gaz garrick x reader #cod x female reader #female reader #cloudypariah writes

[citizen-zero]

I just went back and reread Mina’s very first entry, her letter to Lucy on May 9, and in it she writes,

I have just had a few hurried lines from Jonathan from Transylvania. He is well, and will be returning in about a week.

Which REALLY sheds a new light on two things: 1) the fact that even while he was rushing, Jonathan sent a full paragraph of text to her, and 2) the fact that Mina was expecting Jonathan to be home by mid- to late May, and hasn’t seen or even heard from him in damn near 3 months at this point.

(Note on that last point: there seems to be some discrepancies in the text here? Jonathan writes two letters on May 12, one to Mr Hawkins and one to Mina, but it doesn’t seem like Mina, at least, ever gets this one, and it isn’t the one that gets burned later because Jonathan specifically discusses writing that one. The single line Mina gets seems to be one of the three written on May 19, specifically the one dated June 19, and from what I’m seeing in her journal thus far there’s no mention of her receiving a letter explaining he’d be staying another month; in fact, on July 26 she actively says she hadn’t heard from him in some time. It doesn’t seem likely that Mr Hawkins would receive correspondence and then not tell her, so either those letters were never sent or Stoker forgot to account for them, lol.)

But I digress. Her mention of him sending “a few hurried lines” in May is a stark contrast to the single line she received yesterday, and we can see exactly why she immediately sensed something was wrong—again, even when Jonathan was in transit and had a pressing need to be on time, he still found time to write more than a single sentence to her mentioning that he was doing well and giving an update on his ETA. One would assume that, if he’s sending this newer letter while still at Castle Dracula and not yet actively traveling, he’d have plenty of time to write something longer and more descriptive, even if he’s not waxing poetic.

And on top of that, she hasn’t heard from him at all in 3 months!!! Oh my god! Imagine if you were making plans to see your friend or partner next week, and then they totally dropped off the face of the earth without warning, and then three months later they texted you sounding completely different from how they normally do and offering absolutely no explanation for their absence. You’d be freaked out too! You’d have probably been freaked out much sooner than that! You’d probably assume they were missing or fucking dead!

I understand that travel and communication took more time back then (especially if we agree with Stoker’s portrayal of Eastern Europe as less technologically advanced) and one couldn’t always promptly inform about delays, but we have telegrams and trains at this point, and it’s not like Jonathan’s in the middle of the ocean (haha!). It’s entirely reasonable that he might be delayed a week or two or even three, but one might expect that if he was going to be delayed THREE MONTHS long, he’d have sent word much sooner. If Jonathan could send a letter from within Transylvania that got to Mina within a week or so of his arrival, and if she could reasonably expect him to be home in a week from her May 9 letter, AND if she could consider it noteworthy not to have news of him within a day of his single line…then it doesn’t make sense to me that it’d be reasonable to anyone for him not to communicate this long of a delay.

Which makes it SO interesting that Mina’s downplaying her own uneasiness about him, because it mirrors Jonathan trying to rationalize everything he’s experiencing in the castle. She has a plethora of reasons to be completely panicked by now, and it seems she’s suppressing that panic by pretending like she doesn’t know why she’s feeling uneasy. The line from Jonathan should’ve been comforting, it’s finally news of him after all this time…but it’s jarringly out of character. I think on some level Mina knows that something isn’t adding up, she knows that there’s red flags everywhere, but she has no proof and no way of finding out, there’s no real reason for her to think that anything is wrong. It’s the kind of suppression you might do when you’re desperately trying not to have a panic attack about a situation you have no control over.

Once again, reading Dracula this way really makes for a richer experience because in the book, her May 9 letter and her journal entry on July 26 are much closer together and you could easily read both of them in one sitting. But when it’s spread out the way it is, you can go back and be slapped with realizations like this.

#dracula daily #dracula #mina murray #jonathan harker #personal #erika's blog and bar

[emblazons]

hi marie, its me again <3 the anon with byler doubt haha ... you made such great points! and tysm for such a thorough response.

I am SO CURIOUS how do you think they'll get Mike and Will together? I think that's the aspect that has me doubting the most because it feels so so MESSY and they can very easily mess it all up if they aren't careful.

Explaining Mike's internalized homophobia etc might be something too difficult to unpack in just one season, on top of everything else going on as well with the world literally ending. I also don't know what the point was of having Mike say he loved Eleven if it wasn't true, what do you think they were trying to achieve with that?

Do we truly think she'd be okay with breaking up with Mike? And if the answer is yes, how will that affect Mike and El's dynamic going forward, you think? Will they really not only break up milkvan, but leave elmike underdeveloped in favor of Byler?

I look at the Steve/Nancy/Jonathan love triangle and that has been a mess for seasons now and still no resolution, so I don't know how they'll do it for Mike and Will. I fear they'll go for the "easy route" (aka milkvan endgame) to focus on the supernatural and other characters more. Because if Byler is endgame I feel like they'd need to devote a great chunk of the season to them in order to explain wth is going on with Mike specifically + giving him closure with El.

I suppose something else that gives me doubt is how Mike and Will have been sidelined in these last few seasons to give more screentime/protagonism to other characters and dynamics, so I don't know if I can fully believe the Duffers care THAT much about romantic!Byler if that makes sense.

Hopefully this all doesn't sound overly pessimistic or something, I am genuinely curious about your thoughts in some of these more like looking for reassurance tbh! Especially after reading your response to my first ask <3 TYSM once again!!

hello again!

To be honest, you've got a lot of questions that require separate (and equally detailed) responses, but...let me see if I can briefly explain each, and maybe link to other analyses I've done that might help make sense of why I say.

note: some of these are just my frankest opinions unfiltered, but I do have analytical reasons for all of them. Your questions are also asking things it's taken several rewatches and a year to sort through so...apologies if you just get the simplest version of the idea delineated here haha. also, a cut, because this got really long.

1: How do you think they'll get Mike and Will together? Transparently? I'm not really all that into specifics, because expecting specific things means I'm going to fall into the trap of thinking I'm the one writing it when I'm not and then say The Duffers "lied" or "messed up" because I expected something they never put in there. That said—in terms of plain setup, they will need to address the painting because that was a critical plot point from damn near minute one of S4, and now it's become fully integrated with not only Will's feelings for Mike, but Mike's own sense of El's feelings for him.

Beyond that...I think El will need to be the one to initiate the "complete" breakup, because she's the one who wanted space in the first place, the one who is repeatedly having her romantic partner paralleled to parental and tragic figures, the one refuses to be vulnerable & who built lies into their relationship...and the one whose general arc centers around reclaiming autonomy and choice from the men in her life. I also think Mike will be the one to initiate the romantic aspect, if its not a bit mutual.

2: Mike's internalized homophobia etc might be something too difficult to unpack in just one season - I disagree. We managed to sort through introducing Will's romantic feelings and sense of his queerness in a single season just fine...and Mike has had queer-coding show up throughout every season if you know what you're looking for.

The fact that this boy already has a one way sign into his closet, has repeatedly yelled about "boys only" every season AND shows clear signs of male attraction already has most people (even the supposed 'GA') suspicious of his sexuality, and combined with his devotion to will + the wider context, there are plenty of ways to introduce the idea of him liking boys explicitly that don't require any intense delineation...unless you expect them to say "he's gay" out loud, which they didn't do when Robin came out, and still haven't done for Will either...despite everyone knowing damn well they're gay.

3: I also don't know what the point was of having Mike say he loved Eleven if it wasn't true - I think that most of the breakdowns I've done of parentified!mike make clear that the love he has for her is somewhat genuine...though its being written as misplaced familial love, because he spent so much time believing he needed "a girl" to assuage his insecurities.

While I absolutely lean toward a gay!Mike reading myself, it's still clear even without a label that Mike's love mirrors Hopper's more than it resembles any of the love given by potential romantic partners to other women across the show—and Mike, given that he was being told by Will that El needed him to say he loved her for her to win, did what he thought was necessary to help her.

I do not think his love for her is a lie—I simply think it isn't romantic, and has now been so conflated with something negative in El's mind that it wouldn't matter if he mean't it romantically anyway. That said: narratively, Mike had to say he loved El because unless the fullness of what was expected (an I love you) was accomplished, it would hang over the story and any relationship Byler might have. El needed to hear it...so she could reject it, which she did.

4: Do we truly think she'd be okay with breaking up with Mike? yes. I think El will be absolutely 300000% just fine being broken up with Mike lmao. She has Hopper back now (who she was mourning the loss of, and therefore looking to fill with Mike emotionally), on top of having Max's "there's more to life than stupid boys" at the fore of her mind saving her.

Mike is also paralleled to parental and abusive figures in El's mind, on top of the fact that she has been keeping him at an emotional distance for the entirety of S4. Given that she and Lucas will probably also get closer in the search for Max...I'm quite sure she's not going to take it as hard as people imagine, especially given the fact that we already know she was happiest in S3 when they were broken up.

I also don't have any expectation of ElMike being super close friends (beyond party bonds + civility) either, which...I mean if you are I apologize but. I don't see that happening in canon, so them being developed deeply as friends before the show ends is not important to me as a plot point, and doesn't really have any canonical backing considering their ongoing lack of platonic connection outside of the necessary + lack of common interest. That's even a note thematically in the show...which means its makes sense for them not to be that close by the end of the narrative.

5: Steve/Nancy/Jonathan love triangle and that has been a mess for seasons now and still no resolution, so I don't know how they'll do it for Mike and Will. Truth be told, that love triangle has a resolution—Nancy has chosen Jonathan, and continues to, even though she flirted with Steve when she felt lonely. Nancy's arc has always centered around choosing something different than her parents and has from S1—her brief flirtation with Steve aside, her loyalty to Jonathan hasn't changed, though they are absolutely not a perfect couple.

If anything, the end of S4 set up Jonathan and Steve learning to be friends less so than anything implying Nancy might choose Steve instead—Jonathan is finally in a narrative position to choose something for himself now which frees him up to be honest with Nancy, and even outside of that, Nancy is far more likely to end up with single than she is with Steve—which is the exact opposite of how they've set up Mike to be with Will rather than El over the course of the season.

6: I fear they'll go for the "easy route" (aka milkvan endgame) to focus on the supernatural and other characters more. I don't agree. The supernatual plot has always been well-integrated with the romantic elements in every couple across the board, from Mike's "first love lost" energy happening when El disappeared in S1, Lumax bonding in S2 in a fight with demodogs, Jancy's bonding across S2-3 happening in the lab seeing the gate, while Will was un-possessed, and while they fought the thing monster in the hospital....and Jopper in Russia fighting a demogorgon in S4.

The Duffers have never slacked in setting up their romances in conjunction with the supernatual plots, and there's no reason to think they're gonna start with Byler, especially given Will's mirroring of Vecna/Henry, the way the day his disappeared is the day the UD is frozen, and how he's the one who can sense him...while now having Mike glued to his side.

7: if Byler is endgame I feel like they'd need to devote a great chunk of the season to them in order to explain wth is going on with Mike specifically + giving him closure with El. The 5th season is going to bring all of the characters together again, and they've already said Will is central to that. I've written before about the reason why they had to sideline Will in their plot to make a narrative point, but regardless...like I said before, if you know how to read subtext, Mike being queer won't come as all that much of a surprise.

Note: I've done several (1, 2, 3, 4, 5) analyses on Mike and his arc, which might help.

Beyond that...again, I honestly don't think The Duffers care much to make ElMike besties like fanon seems to think they should be (they haven't done it with any of the other romantic couples they've broken up) so...closure can include civility and acceptance for them the way it did S2 Steve with Jancy, imo. What Mike needs most is to gain the courage to accept himself and realize he doesn't need a girl to assuage his insecurities—and him being casual friends with El the same way he is casually supportive canonically with Max makes more sense than trying to skirt over all the mess of their relationship for the sake of an attached fandom ☠️

—that was a lot to cover, but hopefully that cleared up my position on a lot of your questions? I would also encourage you to take a look at my ST commentary tag & analyses highlights list (soon to be updated again) and even my asks for more context, on top of maybe giving the show a rewatch in its entirety if you can.

Sidebar: I also encourage you to dig into my Duffer Brothers tag and commentary (see bottom of the page), because knowing who made the show is just as helpful as understanding the show itself.

Its really easy to get caught in other people's wants and headcanons for the show if you don't keep going back to it yourself, so—as lovingly as possible, I really do encourage you to just sit and watch it with the "byler knowledge" you have from users like me, your other fave analysts, and maybe some of the "old guard" like @kaypeace21, who was integral in my own development of opinions before I dug in for myself. If you're ever doubting, that's always your best bet.

That said: It's literally impossible to summarize a framework crossing nearly 37 hours of TV in a single ask (or even 20)...which is why I've got almost a year worth of posts about it (and have evolved my depth of understanding dramatically over time).

The same way you can't spark notes your way through a degree without missing a lot of context, even me saying this with evidence won't help a lot if you haven't dug into it yourself—and doubt will repeatedly creep in if you're trusting me over the show itself, even though the show is where I've pulled all this from lmao.

—this got really long, but....I hope it helped. And again, sorry if I seemed short anywhere lmao. This was a lot to cover. Still, as always, thanks for the ask!

#this got so long lmfaooo #and I'm sorry if I answered bluntly anywhere in my trying to get through all your questions lmao #but also...like. I don't have doubts about the duffers ability or the story direction because I've spent a lot of time with the show #not just with the fandom or scenepacks. Like. all 37 hours of this thing LMFAO #and honestly...that is the only way to truly get a sense of it as a whole entity. It literally exists as a whole unit #we're just waiting on the last piece! #asks

[quandaryqueen]

Evermore II

Year one Jonathan Crane X Reader

The Batman and Robin stayed silent to hear your tales about who the Scarecrow used to be.

Part I

"Johnathan had always been closed off, shy. No, shy's not the right word. More like afraid. Afraid to speak up. Already been convinced that everyone despised him, should he speak he'd be detested even more. I was told that I was the first to smile his way, with no malice, or distate. And he truly did want to play with me and my cousins when I asked him after their Sunday mass. To feel some sort of normalcy for once, experience the wonders of childhood he's yet to experience..

"He desperately wanted to play out with the other children but he'd be met with corporal punishment and extra hours to work on the cornfield his grandmother owned. And while he worked, his grandmother would say something about the neighborhood kids.

"How much of a hussy is Sherry Squires, already being encouraged to be a prostitute like her mother. Bo Briggs following after his father's footsteps to sell his soul to Satan to live a lavish lifestyle. And the new child in town, I, a spawn of Lucifer sent to woo Johnathan and lure him into the crowd of the perverse, the damned. We were only nine at the time. And she haven't even met me.

"His great granny Keeny isn't too fond of us. To be honest, who isn't she not fond of at this point? She despised me and forbade Jonathan to allow himself to approach my proximity. Jonathan had obeyed her and I never saw him again. Every time we crossed paths however, he'd avert his gaze and turn away. I found it odd back then, but I didn't let it concern me too much. I understood how some kids can be avoidant to a degree at times.

"It wasn't until high school though when we'd often cross paths enough and how difficult it would be to avoid each other. I was oblivious of the war happening in his head, how he'd curse my name just as how his great granny Keeny did, as if it would ward me off. She had made him believe that I and everyone were but children of Satan, a cult of the great evil leeching off of the children of God, attempting to disseminate the seed of evil in just about everything. Everything that's just mundane. Books, movies, peers, events, colours, apparently everything is Satan.

"Anyways, Johnathan and I had began talking when I lent him a hand with his books. His arms could barely fit in a dozen of hardcover, they'd slip from his grip and he'd awkwardly bend in odd angles to keep them together. He was looking at me with wide eyes, brows furrowed. It was as if he was anticipating something. I didn't know back then, but he thought that I was going to throw his books away or on him, it was what Bo Briggs did to him back then anyways. As he gawks at me, I put the books down for a moment to realign the placement for a better grip and jokingly asked why he needed all those books when he already is brainy. I also regrettably picked at his skinny arms, remarked at how he'd carry those amount of books he might break his arms.

"He didn't spoke at all, he kept his head down at the duration of the conversation... If you can even call it that. I was just filling in the void of his silence with idle talk about anything. Knowing my fifteen year old-self in high school, it was probably about the sports event that I'd be participating in, how yesterday's practice had me limping on one foot. I was an athlete, a pretty active one. John and I had nothing in common back then.

"Whatever it was that we had in that day, our interactions with one another started. Well, he didn't talk to me per se, but whenever I'd wave at him he'd wave back. It wasn't until he was assigned to tutor me when he and I actually verbally interacted. He couldn't look me in the eyes yet but at least he wasn't unresponsive. Our conversations were of the studies I struggled with in class due to my constant absence to focus on my pursuits in sports, then I started to talk to him about the books he was carrying around. Folk tales, legends, myths, parables. Those were the books he read back then. He gushed about it and I know how much he loved reading them. I was mesmerized by his passion, how it made him more outspoken, although he was apologetic about it which greatly saddened me. He was told that reading such things were Satan whispering in your ear about the other gods out there and how they're more powerful than his God. No doubt it was great granny that instilled that influence on him. He didn't believe her, though the fear was still there and he read those books in secrecy. He even lent me one of the books, Ichibod Crane. The cover was barely clinging on the pages because Bo Briggs had snatched them from Johnathan one time and threw it against the ground. I received two things that's day. Because of him I started to love literature and we bonded over it. I've never held a book in my life and he showed me just why he was so glued to them. Another thing I have gotten from that interaction, was to keep Bo Briggs away from Johnathan."

"So he was bullied?" Asks the bat.

"Yes. By association, Briggs and his posse stopped picking on him and I didn't even have to threaten them. I mean, I was the leading athlete of Alren Academy, my name was imposing enough to drive them off.

"From then on, we were thick as thieves, but only in school grounds. We only see one another outside of school from chance encounters. He was secretive about our friendship. Having been hearing about the old Keeny, I can understand why. He didn't have to tell me, he himself was the telltale signs of the abuse his great grandmother sadistically put him through. And I hated that I can't do anything about it.

"I once gave him a uniform of mine to wear after he was pushed by Briggs' posse. He was caught alone, they took advantage of my absence and pushed to a puddle. I was enraged, as you can imagine. I ran over and they scramble off. I'm not a violent person, but I remember that I was ready to throw punches. But instead of chasing after them, I simply helped Jonathan off the ground. I draped my jacket on his shivering form and once I got him to clean up in the gym showers, I gave him my uniform. It was an old jersey I've outgrown and yet it didn't fit him. It drapes loosely on his body and he was drowning from the excess fabric. Because of that I began to bring extra food every lunch.

"You know, he was always there for me when I practiced for my games. Out of place, knows barely anything about the sport, but he's there, watching from the sidelines, silently cheering and supporting. After practices he would tell me praise me to oblivion. And when I'd stupidly injure myself for a mere point, he'd always be the first rushing towards me... You'd think he'd be there when it came for the competition, but he's nowhere to be found.

"There were so much school events he wanted to attend but can't. My games, the pep rallies, the school play, autumn formal, school festivals. Of course it was the hag again that had forbade him. I hated her for constantly holding him back and I even offered Jonathan the option of sneaking away from her, but he was too afraid. And so, I let him be. I regrettably attended those events without him and I never learned, as I continue to attend those dreadful things and feel guilty at the fact that I'm having fun, whilst Jonathan is... Well, whatever the hag is doing to him.

"So imagine my shock when he attended senior prom. He was tense to the touch yet somehow relieved. Everything about him changed. I couldn't put a finger on it back then, but now I realised the fact that he now has the freedom to do as he pleases, but thoughts about his past held him back, reluctance causes him to retreat if it weren't for me reassuring and encouraging him.

"He and I danced the night away, content with one another's company. He was holding me close, tight, afraid to let go. They boy who was afraid to speak whispered to my ear about our future together, the things we wanted to do after we leave that blasted country... The boy who can't even look me in the eyes kissed me at prom night and made me feel the happiest I've ever been.

"Then we graduated high school and we... Eloped. Gathered all the things we needed, headed to Gotham and the first thing we did was of matrimonial. Courthouse wedding with no invitation for anyone to attend at all. In fact it was an impulsive decision but he and I were so certain, so driven. Married at eighteen as students in Gotham's university. It was the best years..." You sighed, eyes were distant with nostalgia and melancholy.

"And his great grandmother?" Robin asks.

"... I never questioned it. He never brought it up, and so I never did. I never wanted to subject him discomfort with a topic sore like that. And I didn't care about her. I was just relieved that she was no longer tormenting him. But anyways, Gotham University had something in store for us and it had opened various opportunities for the both of us. Jonathan made himself out as the brightest and psychology and having been influencing me with literature, I find myself pursuing education.

"In no time, he and I graduated again and had ourselves a steady career out of teaching. Professor Jonathan Crane and his spouse, Professor Y/N Crane... It was a dream come true. He was particularly fixed on the fear aspect of the human psyche and I wasn't particularly shock, the man had always been fascinated with it. In a morbid degree but I couldn't care less back then, as I just saw him as the boy who'd ramble about it with such fervour that makes me stare at him, astonished and mesmerized at his in-depth understanding and passion.

"I didn't realise just how obsessed he was. Passionate is one thing, but obsessed... It didn't cross my mind at just how damaging it was until he shot a blank at a student while they were doing a presentation... I... I know how pointed he is when it comes to teaching methods, but... I never thought he'd do such a thing. The student almost suffered from a heart attack and his parents threatened to press charges if the boards of the school did nothing about the careless professor. I was on Jonathan's side even if I didn't support what he had done, but it was useless. He was terminated.

"That was the catalyst of the downward spiral of our relationship. Having been in a decade long marriage, he and I started to drift apart. It started with him being distant, refused to look me in the eyes. Because of detest? Shame? I don't know. I tried to comfort him, confront him, but he'd leave. It came to the point that I even knelt down, tugging on his sleeve, tears in my eyes yet he couldn't spare me a glance. Then, he became avoidant.

"One day, I had walked in the apartment and found it empty. The air was heavy and then I started to feel faint... Breatheless... Then, everything went black. I can't remember what happened back then, but all I know is that I felt immense terror... Terror that had me screaming for Jonathan's name at the top of my lungs that my vocals ripped, scratches and bruises of unknown origins...

"Then I woke up at the hospital. My Jonathan was holding my hand shot up when he realised that I was awake, tear tracks under his darkened eyes. I was still out of it and I can't make sense of what he was saying, the last image I saw of him were of him kissing my hand and leaving. I should've reached out for him, call for his name, but I couldn't.

"Then, we divorced. And everything has been miserable ever since. That's all I have. I don't know his whereabouts and... The news of the recent murders came to me as a shock at first but... I now see that Jonathan can be capable of such. I haven't received any strange letters but I'll inform you if I do."

"I see," Batman nods. "Thank you for honesty, Mx. L/N. If anything happens, reach out for Commissioner Gordon specifically."

Then, they left through the window, leaving you by your lonesome. Your desire to sleep-in had dissolved and had you glancing over a bookcase. Reaching for one book, you gently grasped the spine and leaf through it, until you found something pinched between the pages. A photograph of you and your Jonathan on your wedding day. You closed the book with a sigh, before placing it back.

To be continued →→→

#batman year one #year one scarecrow #year one Jonathan Crane X Reader #jonathan crane #scarecrow x reader #dc x you #dc x reader

[catspittle]

☠ ― 𝑄𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑇𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑀𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑠. (𝑄𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑔𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟/ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.) via spookmemepls

How "open" are you to generally discussing the fact that you are transgender, or have gone through transitions? Are you casual about it, or are you a little more guarded with discussion?

Emotionlessly, Crane stared. Then blinked, slow and catlike. "The hell are you," came the reedy hiss, "a cop? Unless it's needed within context or I happen to know you well enough to get naked around you, you don't need to know what's in my shirt. Or pants. Other than that, if folks want to know what it means, may as well tell 'em if I have the time. People ain't born knowin' everything."

What pronouns do you currently use? Have you ever considered trying any others?

[Crane uses he/it/佢, though would really prefer to be referred to by he/him only if you're a white English speaker. It's about trust, and trust is not implicitly present with white people when you are a minority in America.]

What 'gendered' terms are you okay with? Which ones aren't you okay with? (Ex. King, Queen, dude, bro, etc...)

His reply is but a shrug. "....I'm supposed to care why? I am a middle-aged man. That's ridiculous. I don't cry about words."

How old were you when you discovered that you were transgender, or wanted to transition? What lead to said discovery?

"Didn't much feel like me anymore. Figured that out in my 20's or so, just about." Crane scratched at his ear with a clawed hand. "Don't think anythin' in particular lead to it. Then again, my memory's not what it once was. Still. Not everything is some grand ass epiphany. Calm down, will you?"

If you changed your name/alias, is there a meaning behind why you chose it?

He laughs, the sound like he's shoving his own lung through a wood chipper. "You ever hear of a singer named Johnny Cash? I'd be damn amazed if you haven't, it ain't exactly like he's particularly obscure. Legally, it's my name; just in English."

Who was the first person you came out to? Did they accept it?

"Old boyfriend. Murray, Charles. Doctor of Polar Ecology; you might know him. Then again, you might not. Little impossible not to be exposed when you've had a child and only one of you's got a dick," Crane snorts, rolling his eyes.

Have you gone through any transition procedures, or do you plan on it? What was it like if you have?

Jonathan raised an eyebrow, then sat in stony silence for quite some time. "Bitch," he began, "the fuck. See, this is the kind of shit we hate being asked. Most of us folks want to be seen as normal, not 'freaks' by the cisgendered community. Now, 'what is normal, Dr. Crane?', you might be askin' me. And the answer to that is 'I have no goddamned idea'." In mild exasperation, he threw his hands up in the air. "I'll admit, I'm not one to mind being seen as a freak by the general populace...but who are you? Why are you here, again?" Sneering, he spat at the interviewer. "What I've had removed, I've lost to cancer. Nothing else to say there."

Have you been through any sort of voice therapy? What was that like?

"And you-" he points at the offending individual, "think I-" then he points at himself, "have money. I'm flattered. Or that I know folks who aren't either cis or dead. Or that Nikolai bitch, who I make a point to avoid wherever possible. White folks are often the whiniest and most entitled excuses for people."

Do you wear binders, or other undergarments regularly?

"Tape, sometimes," Crane grunted apathetically. "That and armored shapewear. Doesn't do too much against a hail of bullets, but it's something." Of course, the man looked like a slightly curved stick to begin with. "At my age, another major surgery would kill me. Aside from the reduction, I'm stuck with what I've got."

Do you actively take testosterone/estrogen? How do you prefer to take it if so?

"Again, you think I have money. I'm charmed. Or at least I would be if I gave half a damn about dancin' like a trained monkey for some stranger. Just didn't have much better to do."

What are some things you didn't quite expect with your transition? Maybe some things that didn't work out like you thought, or things that surprised you about the process?

"What with all the fearmongering?" His head tilted to the side in a rather aggressive motion; a puppet with cut strings. "I expected to be bald. Notice how I'm not. 'M happy about that, actually. Would've been a pain in the ass to deal with."

Do you have a preferred "style" of clothing? Or do you just go with whatever you feel like wearing at the time?

He doesn't hesitate before turning and lifting his shirt, exposing raw muscle and cold titanium. "Dressing yourself ain't exactly easy when half of you is metal," Crane replied snidely, then once again pulled the fabric of his shirt down. "I wear what fits. Anyone who has a problem with that can go to hell."

Do you know anyone else who happens to be transgender or went through a transition process? Or perhaps someone who wants to?

"Other than some 'look at my Brazilian butt lift and boob job' bootleg Barbie callin' herself Copperhead - who had no goddamn snakes around - and Nikolai's sorry ass, not personally." For a moment he turns to examine the points of his nails. "Of course, I'm not opposed to it."

Have your romantic orientation or your sexuality changed since you transitioned?

"No. Also no. Interestingly, it's common," here he grinned like the cat that had caught the canary, nails scraping against the nearby wall. "But I do hope you're capable of connecting the dots. Not all transsexuals were lesbians. Not everyone as a general's attracted to women, and some of us never will be." You should probably run.

What would you tell someone who wants to transition? Maybe you would have some warnings, or general thoughts you'd like to share with them?

"Think about whether you can afford it, because I sure as hell couldn't. If you have to beg complete strangers for total funding, that means you can't. And don't judge your own progress by other people, it'll only end up making everyone miserable." Sage advice from a psychologist, without needing to pay! Imagine that.

Has transitioning made you feel happier, or more comfortable? What was the best part? Are there any details that make you feel particularly "at home" in your body/identity?

"Comfortable, sure." He wouldn't deny that. "Not sure if there has been a best part, apart from finally feeling like I'm not some alien stuck in a flesh suit. A human being, I am not, but the terminology works out just fine." Then Crane thought for a moment. "'S nice to finally be fucked as a man, when people care to acknowledge me as one. It's comforting. Like stepping into the doorway of your own home at the end of a long day."

#masterpost #Aimless yowling - IN-CHARACTER #trans pride #death mention #[I will forever roast Vee and Del because they threw around the word 'N*zi' when anyone they didn't like breathed slightly wrong lmfao] #suggestive

[thatforgottenbasilisk]

To the Dogs

Words: 2463 (AO3)

Summary:

Case #0151001: Statement of Tim Stoker, regarding plastic that refuses to bleed. Original Statement given 10th January, 2015. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.

For Whumptober 2023 Day 23, Prompt #2: Stalking

The tape recorder is clicked on.

Statement of Tim Stoker, regarding plastic that refuses to bleed. Original Statement given 10th January, 2015. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.

It's not right. Nothing about this is right, of course, but this... this isn't right. It's not fair.

I should get to make those damned things suffer, and yet they don't even have the decency to feel it. They don't breathe, they don't bleed, they don't fall or crash or burn and I am sick of it.

I am so fucking sick of it.

They fear me, of course. Everything does, when I feel that it needs to, but fear isn't enough. It will never be enough.

You don't know what I'm talking about, though. You don't know why I'm angry. You don't know what they are. That's alright, though, because you will. In due time.

There are monsters in this world, but you knew that. You're not that stupid. You might even be one of them, but don't worry- I don't have a grudge against you. You're safe from me, so long as you don't piss me off, but I can promise you that there is nothing that you can possibly do that can top what they've already done.

I used to be human, see. Normal. I also used to have a brother. Neither of those are true anymore, and that's because of them.

His name was Danny. He was my little brother, and I- I loved him more than anything. He'd been there as long as I could remember, the age gap between us small enough that to me, I had always had a little brother.

Then they took him. Technically you could say he went wandering in on his own, a lamb walking into a lion's den, but they are abominations. They were never mean to exist. They were never meant to be alive. A better comparison would be a person walking into a pit of demons- demons aren't real, never have been, never will be, as they shouldn't be. A child crawling under his bed, to find that there really is a monster there- moments before he is devoured by a thing that does not care that it is an aberration.

Danny went wandering into a performance hall, long abandoned by humanity and long under the control of I Do Not Know You. The Strangers.

They killed him. I don't think they even hesitated, like a pack of hyenas, filthy opportunists, no honor and no sense of fairness and that's not the point but something about it grates at me.

He never had a chance. He never would've had a chance if he'd wandered into a pack of my own kind, I know that, I know that, he'd be dead no matter what he'd run into, but I- I am still angry. I am still seeking revenge.

I hate them. The Strangers. The Circus. They disgust me.

It doesn't matter what I do, not to them. No matter how many I make sure stay down, they always come back with more numbers, more extras, more mannequins, more understudies ready to take the place of whatever so-called "performer" I managed to put down. They don't even mourn their dead.

Even animals mourn their dead.

Are they too stupid for it? Is there nothing more to them than the masks and the costumes they bear? Just made-up faces and base instincts, nothing going on behind their painted eyes?

I don't care what they are. I don't care if they have any kind of real awareness of their actions. I'll make them suffer as well as I know how, and whether that means what I do is just an inconvenience in the end, then so be it. There's nothing more than that I care about anymore.

I used to care, of course. I used to be so bitter, so angry, and that's what molded me into this. I won't pretend I'm any better than they are, now, because there's too much blood on my hands to deny it, but the difference is everything I kill deserves it. They kill whatever's new and shiny and catches their attention for more than a fraction of a second.

After they killed Danny is when I was the angriest. I was lost and confused, with nothing and no one to take it out on, or to explain a goddamned thing to me. I didn't know why Danny was gone, not really, just that he went into the wrong place at the wrong time and got what he never deserved. I didn't know what that anger, that bitterness, could turn me into, but I don't regret it. I just wish I'd been able to do it earlier, so maybe, just maybe, I could have gone in with him. Gave Danny a fighting chance.

I know it's not realistic. I know it wouldn't have happened that way, but I can still imagine it. Danny can still be alive in a fantastical other world that exists only in my head.

Enough about that, though. You want a story, right? That's what these things are for, not my ranting and raving about the fucking mannequins.

How about the first time I killed one of them?

It was barely a month after Danny died. It wasn't a full-on mannequin, barely even a children's doll on the scale of things. It was a pathetic, pitiful thing, and I was just as much killing it as putting it out of its misery. Maybe it was young, new, freshly not-all-there anymore, and it just had enough of itself left to know that something was wrong but not have the faintest idea what. That didn't stop it from trying to prey on people, though, so it received the dubious honor of being the first.

It was the end of my first week back at work, I remember that clearly. I'd had to take time off, for the funeral and the arrangements and things, as well as the police deciding to question me about it, insisting that I had had something to do with it, insisting that I was jealous, or- or angry at him. I still don't like any of the police because of that, no matter how similar some of them may be to me now.

It was the very first Friday I'd been back, and I'd gone to a pub- not quite to celebrate, more to mark off a little milestone for myself. To end that part of my life, the part where everything is all about how Danny's gone. Yeah, I was drinking alone, but it wasn't all that much and I wanted to get a little closer to normalcy without doing my usual interacting with coworkers and having a whole night out. I wasn't up for that.

I was walking back home in the dark, only a little tipsy, when I heard something in the alleyway nearby. It wasn't very well lit in that part of the street, so I assumed it was either something I had no business in or would only make worse by stepping in, so I decided to ignore it and keep walking. I nearly succeeded, I nearly just went about my night and ended up remaining the same man I was before, getting over the grief and the anger like almost everybody else, but something stopped me.

"Help me."

It was a faint whisper coming from the alleyway, clearly a woman's voice, high and broken in a way that somehow reminded me of a recording inside of one of those baby dolls that talks. Something about it felt like a broken music box, an antique made of porcelain, a cracked piece of delicate finery that has long since passed its time.

I wasn't so far gone to ignore it at that point. I pivoted over to the alleyway, hesitating only in judging if there was anything in my way, and walked inside with caution to the wind. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust, but I eventually saw the human-shaped lump sitting on the filthy concrete and leaning against the brick wall. I crouched down near her, waiting for my eyes to adjust a bit more to see what was wrong.

Her skin was very pale, almost bone white. She looked delicate, with very thin bone structure, though her hair was thin and lank and her eyes were sunken and dull. She wasn't quite looking at me, more watching the mouth of the alleyway, and she didn't move a muscle. I didn't think it strange, how still she was, and it wasn't until later that I realized she wasn't breathing at all.

I didn't know what her kind was responsible for, not yet. I hadn't gone wandering into Danny's tomb until much, much later.

I waited, for a moment, before asking, "How can I help?" It was basic, but sincere- I'd still cared, back then. Danny was gone, everything I'd had was gone, but I still somehow had hope in the world.

She didn't respond immediately. Instead, she turned her head to me, remaining perfectly level, like she was slowly moving it on a swivel. Her face didn't move, not even when she spoke, in that same high whisper, "I don't know what's wrong with me. Something's gone missing."

Her tone was so flat, and yet at the same time it was desperate. I didn't know how to respond, I didn't know how to try to help, but then she kept talking.

"Maybe you have it. Maybe I can get it back by taking it from you."

All of a sudden, she moved. She started attacking me, her fingernails turned to something clawlike and plastic, trying to swipe at my chest, just above my heart. Is that what she was looking for? Was it a beating heart that she was missing, or was it just her human soul?

I don't know, and I guess I never will. I fought her off, despite the fact that I overbalanced and nearly fell over right when she caught me by surprise, but I did fight her off. I started beating her face in, making sure that she would stay down and not try to kill anybody else, and it took more than a few moments to realize that I'd smashed her head right open.

She wasn't even human enough to bleed anymore. Her skull was completely empty, completely white, and whatever it was made of couldn't have possibly still been bone. It broke too cleanly, too neatly, like safety glass that smashes into little cubed pieces that don't cut anyone.

I didn't really register what I did until the morning. In the moment, I stood up and backed away, resuming my walk home. In the morning, I went back to that same alleyway to find absolutely nothing there.

There were more, after that. They're usually plastic, so they usually don't even have the decency to be anything approaching satisfying. Half the time they just let me kill them- it's not like they even care anymore. There's no identity to cling onto, so they know that they'll live on in the next thing that decides to take their face.

Statement ends.

- ... Well. This was... certainly interesting.

- I'd wager quite a bit that this Tim Stoker would get along quite well with Trevor Herbert, the so-called 'vampire hunter,' were he still alive. First vampires and now talking dolls, how many more delusional serial killers am I going to find Statements from in here? They really do just let anyone in here, don't they...

- Ahem. Anyway. Sasha's been doing the follow-up for this one, and though she did find police records regarding the disappearance of Danny Stoker, only vague details were available no matter where she looked or who she may have impersonated. Apparently, it's extremely restricted access, and is tied to an ongoing case, likely that of Tim Stoker himself. I would wager that he was telling the truth on one thing- he wouldn't have murdered his brother, not if that's what he's citing as the event that caused him to go off the deep end. Of course, I may be wrong, and Mr. Stoker may simply be deluding himself on the actual origin of his obvious psychosis, but I'll give the man at least a little bit of the benefit of the doubt.

- As for current records on Mr. Stoker, he apparently quit his job at a publishing company towards the end of 2013, and he has not been able to be reliably contacted since. In the time since he left his job, he has become the prime suspect for the murders of...

- [Muffled] Sasha? Can you come in here for a moment?

- [Muffled, distant] In a minute, I'm a little busy right now!

[Footsteps]

- Yes, Jon?

- Are these- is this correct? The legal names of all of Tim Stoker's alleged victims, is this the final list or are these placeholder names?

- Oh, they're all real. Believe me, I checked. Apparently their real names are John Doe, Jane Doe, and Max Mustermann, which would be...

- John Doe, but in German this time. Of course it is. So are there any bodies or anything attached to these names, or are they just pinning crimes on this random man?

- Well, see, that's the weird thing. There were three bodies, with identification cards on them and everything, except all three of their IDs are fake. Also, all three of them were suffering from some kind of skin condition, because apparently they didn't have any body hair and their dermal tissue was practically plastic. No DNA could be extracted from any of them, either, because they'd been completely drained of blood. Somehow. Just... no DNA, no body hair, and skin made of plastic. With those names.

- So- bear with me here- is it possible that this man is being held responsible for the murders of three dolls? Test dummies, perhaps?

- I think he might've been going around stabbing those animatronic things, like they've got in Disneyland? Except murder makes a better headline than property damage, so they've labeled him a murderer when he's really just a man who hasn't hurt anyone and just needs help.

- I wouldn't say he's harmless.

- Well, he hasn't killed anyone, then. At least, nobody that they can connect him to. Honestly, don't tell me you believe any of those are real people.

- Of course not.

- There we go! Anyway, is that all you needed?

- I believe so. Thank you.

- No problem!

[Footsteps]

- Right. Well. That answers that, then. There's not much information available on Mr. Stoker other than that, so... end recording, I suppose.

The tape recorder is clicked off.

#tma #tma fic #my writing #To the Dogs #To the Dogs fic

[perriewinklenerdie]

Photograph (Ethan Ramsey x MC)

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x Claire Herondale

Word count: 1,8 k

Summary: Claire and Ethan attend Naveen’s birthday party ft. jealous Ethan

Warnings: None (though MSWord told me that ‘bastard’ might be offensive to my readers so who knows)

A/N: @justanotherrookie​ look, I made it :D it’s an honor to be considered your friend, you slay my life, pls continue to do so <3

A large clothing bag was thrown over his shoulder as he strode towards his office. The light of the day was slowly giving way to the dimness of the evening. Ethan exchanged his working clothes and a white coat for a tux, hair styled meticulously and an alluring scent of his cologne filling the air around him.

He expected her to be waiting for him inside, but upon entering the room, he noticed her absence. Before he could reach for his phone to call her, the door opened and a very frenzied and out of breath Claire appeared. Their eyes locked and she breathed out in relief at the sight of him.

“Sorry I’m late, our patient in 507 needed additional tests run and then there was hold up in the lab and I couldn’t get the results fast enough- “

“Take a breath, baby, calm down.” He laughed under his breath, wrapping his arms around her to pull her closer. She stared up at him for a moment, then stood on her tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his lips. She let out a low hum of contentment.

“Mmh Ethan Ramsey, the best tranquilizer known to humankind.” Claire complimented, brushing her nose against his. “I’m not sharing with anyone, though.”

“Spoken like a true addict. Though, I have to say…” he gripped her hips tighter, smirking at the way her pupils dilated slightly at the motion. “You’re addictive too.”

She leaned up to kiss him again only for her lips to meet his cheek when his head turned. Slightly confused, she leaned away to look at him.

“If you kiss me again, we’ll never make it to the party.” He muttered, stroking her jaw with his thumb. “Go get ready, there’s still time.”

It takes her entire twenty minutes for her to put her dress and shoes on, touch up her makeup and tame her hair. Ethan was waiting for her by the wall, his head rising to look at her when she came back. His breath got caught in his throat for a split second, awe induced by her entire being stopping his thought process momentarily.

He walked over to her, smoothing out one unruly lock of hair, his over hand tracing the edge of the cleavage of her dress.

“I take it you like it?” Claire grinned, toying with the lapel of his jacket. He hummed affirmatively, bringing her closer to his side as they began walking.

“If it wasn’t for the party, I would have shown you just how much.”

~

Naveen, unlike his protégé, liked to celebrate his birthday. He didn’t manage to organize himself a party every year, so he settled for throwing a rather big get-together every few years. Other than that, he settled for small celebrations with Harper, Ethan and, since last year, Claire.

This year, however, was the party year. Claire couldn’t wait. Ethan, on the other hand, wasn’t looking forward to it as much. Tradition was tradition, however, and combined with very convincing arguments from Claire, he didn’t argue.

Due to the situation at the hospital, they were running a bit late. Their saving grace was that they bought the present a few days earlier and that the host was their very dear friend.

“I was beginning to think you two wouldn’t make it!” Naveen exclaimed, greeting the two by the entrance to the bar. He embraced Claire, then Ethan, smiling widely at the pair.

“I like to think we’re fashionably late.” She winked, then passed the gift she was holding to him, warning him of its weight. The oldest doctor deposited the bag at the table near the side of the room, then guided the pair to the group of people by the bar.

“I’m sure you all remember Ethan, so let me introduce you to Claire Herondale, a brilliant young doctor that I literally owe my life to.” Naveen spoke up, a pride tone in his voice when the memories of the pair working together on his case flooded his mind. Claire blushed a bit, taking a small step towards the group.

“Naveen is entirely too generous in his assessment.”

“No, he’s not.” Ethan argued, smiling down at his girlfriend. His hand glided up and down her side affectionately. “You are brilliant.”

Among the people in the group, most of them shared a common feature of surprise at the affectionate side of Ethan Ramsey. They’ve met a couple of times at public functions more or less formal than this one, but all those instances had one thing in common. Ethan Ramsey was alone. Ethan Ramsey was solely focused on his work and his patients. So, to see him with a woman on his arm, and to see him so infatuated with her, was a sight for sure.

Ethan didn’t mind most of the people Naveen invited. They were all amazing doctors and scientists; talking to them was usually an interesting and challenging for his brain experience.

That statement, however, wasn’t entirely true when it came to Jonathan Millstone. In general, he didn’t mind the man all that much. As a researcher, he was great. As a man, not so much. From his more than forward attitude, to his treatment of other people, women especially, everything combined into a not so alluring picture in Ethan’s opinion. He never voiced it, however, as the behavior of the researcher never impacted him directly.

Up until that point, that is.

Because Jonathan had wandering eyes. And his gaze has made itself at home on Claire. Her face, her neck, her waist. The slit of her dress. But most of all, the neckline of the said dress.

There was no shame in his ogling, not a hint of embarrassment when she noticed him staring. He didn’t say a word to her, just stood there and watched.

She breathed in heavily, trying to keep her annoyance at bay. Sensing how motionless Ethan has become, she snaked her hand around his arm, pushing herself closer to his side, twisting her body slightly to shield herself from insisting eyes of the other man. Ethan’s arm immediately wrapped tighter around her, amplifying the effect of her actions. It was the subtlest way she could have given Jonathan a hint that she was in a relationship and wasn’t, even in the slightest, interested or flattered by his behavior.

Surprising no one, he didn’t take a hint.

As they walked away from the group, Claire turned towards Ethan with a glint in her eyes.

“That was some impressive jealousy management you had there, Dr. Ramsey.” She gripped the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. His hands squeezed her sides, his lips hovering right above hers.

“I was holding onto the last bits of patience.”

“I’m glad you did. Tonight, is about Naveen.”

A teasing grin grew on his lips in one moment, and in the next, he was twirling her out and into his arms. His fingers twisted the fabric of her dress slightly, the material rising off the ground a bit. Claire wrapped her arms around his neck, their face coming so close together that they were breathing the same air.

A soft sound of a working camera broke the bubble they were in, causing them both to look over. A photographer stood there, asking them if he could take a portrait of the two of them, per request of the host.

Ethan didn’t have to search very long for Naveen, who had a satisfied smile on his face. He shook his head with a sigh, then turned back to the photographer, nodding slightly in agreement.

With his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, they faced the camera, easy grins lighting up their features. Claire’s hand glided over his back, then slipped into the pocket of his jacket, the tips of her fingers pressing into his side playfully.

“Remind me to get that photo from Naveen later.” He muttered into her ear when they were alone again. She nodded, pressing them together so they could dance.

A few songs later, Claire managed to persuade him to let her get them drinks. And it did take some heavy convincing, especially when the first response she got was ‘I’m not going to be drinking any colorful nonsense’. She promised to not disappoint, then went towards the bar.

He turned around, coming face to face with Jonathan Millstone. He watched something right above the diagnostician’s shoulder, and Ethan didn’t have to guess or turn around to know just who was on the end of his gaze. When two men looked at each other, smugness and arrogance met irritation and disapproval. An explosive mix.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Ramsey with a date.”

“Would it kill you to be more respectful towards anyone?”

“She’s a real piece of beauty. You’re one lucky bastard, getting to score her.” Jonathan admitted out loud, watching how his words affected the doctor. Ethan’s hands rolled into fists and he was about to take a step towards the man, when a deadly calm voice called out from behind him.

“And you’re a real piece of an asshole.”

Both men froze in place when Claire walked to stand next to them. One would expect an angry scowl to reside on her face, but instead, she was neutral. Not a single emotion shown.

Wordlessly, she passed Ethan his glass of scotch, her eyes zeroing in on Jonathan. She weighed her own drink in the glass, swirling the liquid inside a couple of times. When she raised it, the researcher took a step back, expecting her to throw a drink in his face. Instead, she took a sip, smirking at his scared expression.

“You’re also lucky. I won’t make a scene at Naveen’s party.”

He thought he was off the hook. Oh, how wrong he was. Ethan took a definite step towards him, gripping his arm in a vice-like hold. “I’m not that generous, though. I suggest you learn your lesson and beat it.”

With a curt nod, he bid them goodbye (very respectfully) and got lost in the crowd. Claire’s face finally broke out into a smile.

“That felt good.” She shook her shoulders a bit, laughing in relief. Ethan bent his head, lips tracing the shell of her ear, his breath hot against her skin.

“It was also incredibly attractive.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” her fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his pants to drag him closer, her expression feigning innocence despite very suggestive looks they were both giving one another.

“Let me get you home so you can find out.”

Notes

We’re absolutely going to ignore the difference between the dress in the fic and the dress in the pic (yes, I’m a poet)

Denise, find the Hamilton reference (a literal line, no shame) :D

Tagging separately

#open heart #ethan ramsey #playchoices

[goeymoey]

What if you fixed me?

just a simple what if this time :) Tyler being a nurse for the guys and this and that

Yeah

———-

“ What’s the best course of action?”

Tyler looks up from his papers with a tired expression. “ To cut it off. There’s no use trying to save a bunch of fried nerves and dead meat.” He stands up with a sigh, hands shaking by his sides.

“ I know that’s not the news you wanted to hear, but-“

Evan cuts him off. “ No…no, you gave me something…that’s all I wanted.” His good hand clasps Tyler in a soft grip. “ Thank you.”

Their skin tones conflict each other greatly beneath the bright hospital lights, but the cause of Tyler’s tears are not just from the fluorescent shines sting.

His watery blue eyes bravely examine the blackened appendage hanging off Evan’s shoulder. Once an arm, useful, now nothing but an annoyance for his friend.

Dead weight.

Tyler let’s a cold tear roll down his flush cheeks, savoring the moment of silence, before readying himself to wield his bone cutting saw.

“ Okay…let’s get this over with.”

Evan weakly squeezes his friends hand. “ Let’s do it.”

—————

It was horrific. The smell of burning flesh still encases the inside of his nose and he can’t stop scrubbing the non existent blood from his hands.

He’s failed. He failed. The arms gone.

Human hands, one robotic, all dark…ripping at his shirt. Poking his sides. Their heads are screaming, screaming, voices hoarse.

There are tears. Streaming down their faces- oh the horror of it all.

It hurt. It hurts. He can’t tell wants real and wants not. It’s all coming at once.

Faces, hands, tears and voices. Holding onto him with their smudged finger tips and vice grip.

He can’t sleep anymore. He can’t-

“ Breathe.”

—————

Evan’s arm is replaced with one kick ass robotic one, courtesy of Brian, and he couldn’t be happier.

Of course, Evan misses his original arm. He still has nightmares of the day it was flayed like a fish…and sometimes the pain comes back on not so sunny days but, he’s good, he’s good…

The metal is tough, injury proof, and even matches the color of his suit. Black and gold.

So, it’s good. It’s all good.

No problems here…

—————

Tyler can’t bring himself to enter the hospital room. He’s still wearing his blue scrubs, stained with blood and…other fluids and just smelling like death on legs.

His hands are sweaty and shake underneath his gloves. He can’t open the door with them on so, why not come back tomorrow?

A soft hand claps his shoulder.

“ Let me help you.” Evan. His eyes are a mess of irritated veins and teary pupils.

Tyler bites his lip. “ I can’t…I couldn’t help him…he’s…” the more he talks, the harder it is for him to think, so he just shuts up.

Evan gives him a look, and it is just…so so sad, then uses his robotic arm to slip Tyler’s gloves off. He doesn’t dispose of them instantly. Rather, Evan stares at the gloves, stained with his friends blood, before tossing them into the waste bucket beside the door.

It will be burned later.

“ Tell him the truth.”

Tyler forces himself to meet Evan’s hard gaze. It’s tough for Tyler when he towers over Evan a foot, but he manages to hold himself still and digs his finger nails into his palms.

“ But what if-“

“ There’s no if.” Evan states plainly. “ You gave me the truth…do the same for him…He’s my friend as much as he is yours and-“ A sob chokes Evan mid speech and the shorter man is the first one to break their eye contact. He hides his trembling lips behind a black and gold arm as tears streak down his soft cheeks.

Tyler stays still, not fully comfortable with trusting himself to comfort his friend at the moment, and just watches as the other man collects himself slowly.

Evan sniffs and then regains eye contact. “ He was my friend first…don’t break him more than he already is…keep it straightforward, like you did me…”

The taller man looks down, avoiding the stained scrubs. “ He’s not like you Evan…Brock’s more-“

“ Fucking stop it with that shit. He’s not a god damn doll, Tyler…you’ve seen him…you’ve fought with him…He’s not some fucking flower.” Evan points at the closed, ominous, hospital door. “ He’s a god damn bad ass…just like me, just like you!” Tyler receives a harsh poke to the chest. “ And just like everyone else!”

Evan takes a step back, holding his head still, and crosses his arms.

“ Just give him the truth…that’s all I want.”

Tyler opens his mouth, but nothing comes to mind, so he closes it.

Evan nods sternly and then turns his back to the taller man. “ Just do it…I’ll be back soon.”

He waits for Evan’s form to disappear around the corner, holds his hand on the doorknob as the footsteps fade and then enters the room as the elevator doors close.

Tyler closes his eyes. “ Just Tell the truth…”

Brock, from his place on the bed, looks up at the sound of Tyler entering the room and smiles…well, partly.

The left side of his face is a puckered and leathery mess…and no matter how hard he frowns, the left corner of his lip will never fall…In fact, it barley moves at all now.

Tyler holds back the sting in his eyes and swallows harshly.

Brock seems to sense his depressed atmosphere and let’s his smile fall. “ Give it to me straight…is it worth the trouble?”

‘It’ being Brock’s left eye. The honey brown color is gone, drained and dead, with a haunting grey fog covering the scarred pupil. The eye was not injured at the same time Brock’s skin was, but since the traumas happened within minutes of each other, Tyler considers is a “two birds with one stone” injury.

No one laughed in the debriefing room when he was describing Brock’s damage, but Evan still put the world play in their file.

Hopefully someone higher up would find it funny and give him a good star.

Brock coughs harshly, Tyler blinks out of his day dreaming, and points to his heavily bandaged eye with a lightly bandaged hand.

“ Can we save it?”

Tyler instantly thinks about convincing Brock to under go another surgery, but all he sees is a tired man- his friend- with one less eye to see with, and his aspirations fall flat.

A sigh escapes him. He pulls up a chair to Brock’s good side and clasps their hands together.

He squeezes for comfort, and Brock squeezes back.

A deep breath. “ We can’t save your eye…”

Brock doesn’t react the way Tyler thought he would. His shoulders deflate, and heads sinks closer to his chest with the one good eye closed shut.

“ That’s what I thought…bummer.” Brock sighs sadly.

Tyler stares at him silently, hand still tightly gripping Brock’s. “ I’m sorry…I know it’s-“

Brock gives him the same look Evan did just months ago. “ No…Thanks for giving it to me straight…I don’t think I would be able to handle another…”miracle surgery” that doesn’t work.”

Tyler flinched at that, but tightened his lips.

“…I’m just glad it’s not anything worse…Yeah, losing an eye sucks ass but…at least I still have one.” The same soft smile creeps it’s way on Brock’s lips, and Tyler thinks his heart might stop.

The taller man has to lick his lips before speaking. “ Yeah…Yeah…at least it’s not two…” He smiles back, softly.

Brock hums. “ Definitely.”

—————

He can’t see. His eyes are gone, the hands tear at his face.

It’s disappointing. The fog disorients him and sinks into his skin. Bubbling beneath it like hot lava. Stretching and pulling like a current.

The smell of flesh is faint, but very present. Hands clean but tainted with the feel of spider webs that never seem to come off.

He’s failed. He failed, again. But it’s only one eye.

Something scratches at his ankles, nail bitten fingers, threatening to pull him more into the fog.

It hurts. It hurt.

He can’t breathe. He can’t think. He can’t-

“ Wake up.”

—————

Brian, like he had done with Evan, manages to fit Brock with a prosthetic eye. It’s similar to the man’s own eye, but more slender and it glows yellow instead of red.

It’s perfect.

But, sometimes, Tyler finds Brock looking at himself in reflective surfaces. His scarred hand skimming over the damaged part of his face. Fingers lingering a little too long on the part where skin becomes metal.

Its…sad.

Brock never brings it up, and Tyler never asks…because, as far as anyone else knows, Brock loves his robot eye! He can see farther, scan stuff, tell time without looking at a clock and know when or if it’s gonna rain that day.

He loves it!

Well, it itches every now and then, but no more problems here!

…not yet, anyway.

—————

In the following months, Tyler gives Marcel a new hand, preforms life saving surgery on Anthony, reattaches Scotty’s left foot, diagnosis’s Nogla with severe hearing loss, reconstructs Jonathan’s whole face, removes one of John’s fingers, puts Jaren in a full body cast and replaces Brian’s heart with a mechanical enhancement.

It’s…it’s not good. They’re not good. Everyone’s suffering and Tyler….Tyler doesn’t know what to do.

His hands haven’t stopped shaking since the day Nogla and Evan brought Jonathan to the emergency room, and he nearly collapsed from exhaustion trying to safely reattach Brian’s new heart.

It’s too much- it’s all too much…He can’t…He…

Tyler doesn’t know why “he can’t”…because, he has. He’s saved them all, his friends are alive, but he still says he can’t.

Maybe it’s because when he first dug his saw into Evan’s arm, he held his breath. Or maybe it’s because he slept for days after Scotty’s surgery and couldn’t wake up unless it was to the smell of blood from his night terrors…

He doesn’t know.

He probably doesn’t want to.

—————

They learn to talk about it.

Evan brought it up first. “ I still have…nightmares about the day I lost my arm…and I hate it.”

He’s told them all after dinner- while they were watching some rando movie Nogla had picked out.

And then, from there on, everyone opened up about their own insecurities.

“ I look so different from what I used to look like…It’s as if I’m wearing an itchy suit. Everything always feels tight and uncomfortable.” Brock.

“ Sometimes I feel like my hands still there. It’s a weird feeling, and sometimes it gets too much and I have to take off the prosthetic before I throw it in the trash.” Marcel.

“ I look at life so different than what I used too. Everything’s bright, but also not…It can be dizzy or stable and sometimes things aren’t there when you see them…” Anthony.

“ I haven’t walked the same since I’ve gotten it reattached. Every time I’m out of my wheel chair, I feel like my whole legs gonna fall off, and it scares the shit out of me.” Scotty.

“ I miss being aware. My hearing aids help, yeah, but they also…hurt? Not physically, but mentally…I don’t really know how to explain it.” Nogla.

“ Sometimes I look in the mirror and…I’m scared of myself…Because, I have no idea who I’m looking at. That persons a total stranger to me, even though I know I’m looking at myself.” Jonathan.

“ At first, it was just really weird…Like, a phantom finger on my hand. A few times I’ve had to catch myself from using my hand because I still thought my finger was there…it’s kinda…fucked, I guess.” John.

“ I don’t even know how I’m still alive. I don’t think I’ve moved more than a few feet since I got my torso and arm casts removed. I’m scared that if I do anything, even breath, that I’ll hurt myself again.” Jaren.

“ The heart is what makes someone human…and now, mines just not…I feel inhuman with it, but I don’t know what to do…it’s all confusing and it hurts…” Brian.

Tyler listens to them all open up, and it surprisingly makes him feel better. His shoulders relax as the same insecurities he’s shared about his work come from his own patients mouths.

They know the pain of living with it, but they also share a deeper meaning.

It’s…it’s nice to know.

Yeah.

#fanfiction bbs fanfiction #iamwildcat #moo snuckel #vanossgaming #jigglypanda #the gaming terroriser #basicallyidowrk #fourzer0seven #h20delirious #dathi de nogla #kryozgaming #smii7y

[maria-scribbles]

drunk words, sober thoughts

when his girlfriend has too many cups of spiked cider at tina's annual post-christmas bash, steve's reminded of a different party and a different girl who broke his heart.

fandom: stranger things

ship: steve harrington x ice skater!reader, past stancy

word count: 1.3k+

featuring: spiked cider, swearing, a high school christmas party, underage drinking, and a drunk declaration.

a/n: day 7 of my holiday challenge! this is kind of a follow-up to shadow skating, my fic for day one that features a figure skating reader, and so there might be some references to that but i don't think you'll need to read it to understand this one. unbetaed, all mistakes are my b.

come join my holiday challenge!

December 1984

"Hey, sorry I'm late!" Y/N said as she slid into the passenger seat of Steve's car, quickly closing the door behind her to block the freezing wind blowing outside. "I thought I lost this skirt but it turns out it 'magically' appeared in my sister's closet last month and she had 'absolutely no idea' how it got there."

"How convenient for Casey," He reached over to brush some snow from the shoulder of her emerald green coat and she smiled, grabbing his warm hand and dropping a quick kiss on the back of it before lacing her cold fingers through his.

"It's okay, she still hasn't figured out these are the tights I borrowed from her last Christmas." 

"Tell her she's never getting them back because you look beautiful.”

The girl ducked her head and tightened her grip on his hand. "Flatterer. Get going or we're gonna be even later than we already are."

"Okay, just let me do this first." And after pulling her in for a kiss that lingered, warm and safe like fire in a hearth, he put the car in drive and headed off into the cold night.

By the time they arrived at Tina's house and found a place to park on the crowded street, the party was in full swing, bass pumping loud through the front door, and Y/N turned to Steve with a frown as they stood on the porch, bathed in the soft glow of the lights strung on the roof.

"Is it, I don't know, tacky to show up this late? Oh my God, we're gonna look like idiots and it's all my fault-"

"Hey, we're fine, okay?" He said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before leaning down to place a kiss on her forehead. "It's only an hour and all the cool kids show up late, anyway."

She cracked a small smile at his joke and laced her fingers with his once again. "Sorry, I don't really get to go to many parties so I'm kind of...nervous."

That was fair, the last time he'd seen her at one was the summer before freshman year, at the eighth grade graduation party the school hosted at the Hawkins community pool (not that he'd been keeping track, no). 

"We don't have to go in if you don't want to," Steve said, bringing their entwined hands to his mouth so he could drop another kiss on her knuckles. "We could go see a movie, maybe grab some food at the diner? I think I'm ready to try skating backwards so we could always go to the rink-"

"That's sweet of you but I'm not driving your ass to the hospital tonight," Y/N giggled at the way he rolled his eyes and mumbled 'gee, thanks' under his breath before she continued, her voice quiet and soft and oh so honest. "But seriously, I know how much you wanted to come to this and I really, um, I really wanna be here with you. Together."

Together. That's what they were for almost two weeks now, the best damn twelve days of his life, and while they never bothered hiding their relationship, they hadn't outright said they were dating yet; Tina's party was to be their big debut before going back to school in the new year and he couldn't wait to show the entirety of Hawkins High that this beautiful girl holding his hand, looking up at him with a bright smile on her face and sparkling lights reflecting in her eyes, wanted him.

"Pretty sure I'm the luckiest bastard on the planet, being here with you."

Y/N raised up on her tiptoes to press her lips to his, hand holding tight to his for balance. "Well then I must be the luckiest bitch. Now come on! Let's go party."

Things were great at first, aside from the typical nasty jabs from Carol and Tommy H -having nothing better to do than harass anyone who had the audacity to be happy in their miserable presences- as they danced with their classmates, arms wound tight around each other, spinning gracelessly, smiling and laughing and wrapped up in their own perfect little world.

And then Y/N had one too many cups of spiked cider. 

She was tipsy, swaying as she loudly sung along to Fleetwood Mac and when Steve caught her after she tripped over her heeled boots and sloshed booze on the hardwood floor, he couldn't help but think of a different party, a different time, a different girl. The night Nancy Wheeler broke his heart with one word, repeated over and over like a broken record: bullshit.

She was here, surprisingly, tucked in a corner across the room with Jonathan at her side, but the sight of them huddled close together, happy and in love, didn't hurt like it used to, like it did before he fell so hard for the girl wrapped in his arms, giggling as she twirled a strand of his hair around her finger and peppered little kisses all over his cheeks. 

"Stevie, baby boy, have I ever told you how cute you are?" She laughed delightedly at the blush rapidly spreading across his face and pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. "So cute, so handsome, so beautiful."

"You're the beautiful one, Y/N," He replaced the half-full cup of cider in her hand with his can of pop -which she finished without noticing the switch- then steered her back toward the living room, away from the punch bowl. "Come on, let's get you home."

"No, Grandpa'll kill me if I come home like...like this!" She pointed to herself before clutching his hand in between both of hers like it was a lifeline. "Can I stay with you?"

At his nod, she squealed happily and wrapped her arms around his waist, the top of her head accidentally banging against his chin as she hugged him tight. "You're the best, Stevie! Stevie, Stevie...oh, like Stevie Nicks! Like, I love her but not as much as I love you." 

For the second time in this damn house, Steve was blindsided by the words of a drunk girl, feet frozen to the ground and brain just about short-circuiting as it tried to process what the hell she'd just said. "What?"

Y/N looked up, chin on his chest and a soft smile dancing on her lips and the blood rushing in his ears drowned out the pounding music, their classmates' chatter, everything and anything except her voice. "I think I love you."

"You're drunk, Y/N." He finally managed to croak after a long, long pause, in which the grin slowly slipped from her face with each passing second of silence; 'drunk words are sober thoughts' the saying always went, he knew it to be true firsthand, and yet something in him tried to warn him not to believe her (how could he, after all those terrible, shitty things he did to Nancy) as he somehow got his feet to move and started guiding her toward the front door. 

"So?" Keeping one arm around his waist, she shuffled alongside him all the way to his car and let him unceremoniously drop her into the passenger seat. "I just...that's just...ugh, words are hard."

He smiled to himself as he buckled her in and then rounded the car to the driver's side, her hand grabbing his and pulling it onto her lap the second he started driving toward his house. "They are, aren't they?"

Head leaned back against the seat, she took a deep breath and turned to look at him in the dim light of the dashboard. "Listen, I don't really know what love is 'cause I've never felt it before but...I think I could. With you."

Stopped at a street light, Steve met her eyes and tightened his grip on her hand and everything clicked into place when he said the words he'd been thinking for a month, ever since that cold December day he managed to pluck up the courage to ask her for skating lessons. "I think I could feel it with you, too."

Y/N might've missed most of his mouth when she leaned over for a kiss but to him, it was everything he needed. 

#obxmermaidholiday #stranger things imagine #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader

[paperbodiesamongthestars]

Day 23: Picnic

Read it on AO3 or read my whole Harringrove April Collection!

Jim Hopper never really expected to make it back to Hawkins from fucking Russia of all places, so he definitely didn’t expect to make it back and pretty much immediately end up with a second kid. It was just that Billy Hargrove had sacrificed himself to save El, and had somehow survived it, and Joyce was still a little mad at Hopper for not doing more about Billy’s shitty dad, and she had given him that look when it turned out that Billy didn’t appear to have anywhere to go once he got out of the hospital. 

Well, he had one place to go, but Hopper figured moving into Steve Harrington’s apartment could wait until they were both out of their teens. He told everyone who would listen that it was because while Steve and Billy were both technically adults, they were also dumbasses, especially when they were together. He said, loudly and often, that he simply didn’t trust those two boneheads not to burn down Steve’s entire apartment complex, if left to their own devices. 

What he said much more quietly, and only ever to Joyce, was that he remembered what it was like to be a kid with a shitty dad, and to cling to something simply because it was better than what he was used to. Billy might still end up with Steve—probably would, if the starry-eyed way they looked at each other was any indication—but Hopper wanted him to get there because he chose it, and not just because he needed a place to go. 

Billy, for his part, insisted loudly and constantly that he would much prefer to live in an apartment of his own, out from under Hopper’s tyrannical thumb—and yes, that was a direct quote—but he somehow never actually found one that he liked. No one ever called him on it.   

What Hopper hadn’t counted on, when he insisted that Billy move into the fancy house that he had bullied the government into buying for him and Joyce and the kids, was Billy and Steve’s commitment to fucking, just, all the goddamn time. Hopper had missed most of Billy’s recovery while he was in a Russian prison, but he found out later—from Joyce and Nancy and Jonathan and Robin and even some of the kids—that they had been caught at least half-naked by just about everyone before Billy was even released from the hospital. He wished, far too late, that he had chosen a house with fewer windows. There were far too many points of entry for him to manage effectively. 

“You know Steve thinks he’s stealthy?” he said to Joyce incredulously one night after he caught Steve—wearing what was obviously one of Billy’s shirts and the smallest pair of shorts Hopper had ever seen—sneaking out of Billy’s bedroom window. Billy’s second-floor bedroom window. “He’s going to kill himself falling off the damn house.”

“You didn’t catch him until he was already leaving, Hop,” Joyce pointed out, “so he’s not exactly wrong.” Jim wondered when Joyce had turned on him too. He considered nailing the windows shut, but he was pretty sure El would kill him with her mind if he tried it, so he didn’t. 

See, it turned out that “my house, my rules” only went so far with a kid who was technically an adult, and who had also sacrificed himself to save your other kid, so Billy got away with a lot. He got away with even more because both El and Will—and Max, who spent far more than half of her time at their house—were fully supportive of Billy and Steve’s ongoing shenanigans, and did their best to run interference with Hopper. 

Apparently, one of the things Hopper had missed during Billy’s long recovery was the day some under-informed nurse let Billy’s dad in to see him. Everyone agreed that it had been a very dramatic scene, but they weren’t very forthcoming about the details. Only Max and Lucas and Robin had been there to witness it firsthand, but the kids all still talked about it in hushed whispers. The only way they ever described it to Hopper was to say that Steve had gone “just completely feral, Hop.” Neil had never bothered to come back, so whatever it was that Steve had done that the kids didn’t want Hopper to know about had been pretty effective. Max’s grudging affection for Steve had given way to complete adoration on that day, and El’s affection for Billy was well-established, so she had been right there with Max. Hopper hadn’t asked why Will was so supportive of the two of them, but he could guess.

So Billy lived with Joyce and Hopper and Will and El, and Hopper did his very best to maintain at least some semblance of propriety, and every kid in the house did their very best to defy him at every turn. It was exhausting. Which was why he was so goddamn irritated when he heard the low sound of voices in the middle of a walk through the woods behind the house that was supposed to be an opportunity for him to get some damn solitude for once. They were voices he recognized, unfortunately. He sighed heavily as soon as he got close enough to make out what they were saying. 

“Harder, baby,” Billy practically moaned. “God that feels good.” 

“Are you sure?” Steve asked a little breathlessly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Yeah—ohhhhhh…” Billy’s confirmation devolved into an actual moan, and Hopper had had enough. He marched toward the voices, bursting into a clearing with his brow furrowed and an admonition on the tip of his tongue. 

The first thing he noticed was that they had chosen a beautiful spot—they were on a soft-looking picnic blanket in the middle of a pretty little meadow dotted with wildflowers. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the surrounding trees. The remains of a picnic were spread out in front of the two boys, next to an open picnic basket. 

The second thing Hopper noticed was that he had maybe slightly misread the situation. Billy was sitting cross-legged on the blanket, tank top and cutoffs firmly in place, and Steve was kneeling behind him, also fully clothed. Billy’s head was tilted to one side, and Steve had his elbow pressed firmly into the muscle of Billy’s shoulder. Both boys were staring at him with wide eyes. They recovered at about the same time, and Hopper sighed inwardly as Steve cocked one eyebrow. Billy’s eyes sparkled with amusement as Steve spoke. 

“You’re always so tight, B,” Steve said, completely deadpan, eyes locked on Hopper’s. Billy smirked and gave that same low moan again as Steve pushed down with his elbow. 

“You get so deep, baby. Feels so good,” Billy said, and Hopper had seen some shit in his life. Had fought literal monsters. Had spent months in a Russian prison, most recently. He absolutely was not going to blush in front of these two dumbasses. He refused.

Instead, he sighed heavily, resisted the urge to murder them both, and turned around, making his way out of the clearing. Billy waited until he was almost, but not quite, out of earshot before he spoke again, and Hopper was pretty sure he did it on purpose. 

“We’re actually fucking after this, though, right baby?” he asked, and Hopper, unfortunately, also heard Steve’s response. 

“Course, B. That’s why there’s lube in the bottom of the picnic basket.”

“You think of everything, pretty boy. Best boyfriend ever.” Hopper was tempted to turn right back around to yell at them, except that Billy sounded genuinely happy. And that, Hopper would never admit to anyone but Joyce, was a thing that he thought Billy Hargrove deserved a lot more of. He did, however, pick up his pace, before he heard something—again—that would haunt him forever. 

#Harringrove April Challenge #my writing #this is ridiculous and I am not sorry #featuring exasperated dad Hopper #billy hargrove #steve harrington

[captaincravatthecapricious]

No Way To Get Help

@malevon​

Well... this was supposed to be about Jon, but it's about Tim instead. Under the wreckage of the wax museum, Tim isn't dead.

cw nausea, depression, mentions of suicide and suicidal ideation (canon typical levels for Tim end of season 3), ambiguous mentions of injury, hospitals

Four more fics to go, and only one more prompt to send in, so if you have something in mind, get it in quick! I hope you know the drill by now!  Thanks @celosiaa​ for the wonderful card!

The silence is deafening.  Or would be if Tim wasn’t partially deaf already.  He hadn’t been wearing his hearing aids.  What would have been the point?  He knows the plan.  Daisy and Basira are ….were?  Hardly chatty.  He didn’t?  Doesn’t?  Didn’t?  Want to hear a single word that Jon had to say.  

God.  Tenses.  

Is anyone still alive?  Is it just him?  

He should clarify.  The silence is deafening after the explosion.  After the circus music that was somehow louder, possibly because it was at least partly inside his head.  There is probably the sound of rubble settling, and the groaning of burning building, and rushing emergency vehicles.  But… he can’t hear a goddamn thing.  Just that eternal ringing in his ears.  He has never been sure if that was tinnitus or just what silence sounds like.  Never thought it worth asking after he learned that people with tinnitus have higher rates of suicide.  And… well… if this stupid plan was nothing else, wasn’t it just some grand suicide scheme?  

One that looks to have spectacularly failed.  

Just him… probably alone.  In the dark.  

Then again, if he’s alive, maybe the others are too?  Does he want that?  

If he’s honest, he would rather just be dead.  

Not that that is a revelation.  

Then again, he could be dead in a minute.  

He can’t feel his legs.  Well… he can.  He wishes he couldn’t.  He wishes he couldn’t feel anything.  There is so much pain that it just… it’s too much for him to even register as pain anymore.  He just feels… cold and crushed.  Probably shock because there are actual fires burning around him.  He can smell it.  The burning plaster and plastic and wood and smoldering concrete… if that is even a thing?  Thick air.  He’s coughing.  And that hurts more.  

He can’t hear it, however.  

He can’t hear anything but that goddamn ringing in his ears.  

He thinks he might be crying.  

He can’t hear his own heaving sobs.  

Just that high-pitched whine of utter silence.  

Do you know what that sound is, highness?  Those are the shrieking eels…

That’s it.  

The only words his brain can find, as he grows ever more numb.  He has no doubt that darkness is eating at his vision, or would be if there was anything but darkness around him. 

Not even the words from the book.  Lines from the movie.   Which isn’t a bad thing…  He doesn’t even know his own feelings about his favorite book and his favorite movie.  

(That’s not true.  He was always a fan of the movie, but… he and Danny read the book to each other so often…  He has the work paperback in the pocket of his bomber jacket.  Wanted to die with it.  Ideally buried with it, but it’s not like he left a note.  Aside from that damn tape).  

The whine continues.  He doesn’t know how long it’s been.  

 Do you know what that sound is, highness?  Those are the shrieking eels…

That had been the first thing he had thought of when he first heard the worms.  

He curses the worms to the darkness.  If it hadn’t been for them… he could have lived in blissful ignorance about the darker nature of his job… well to some degree.  Sasha would still be here.  Jon wouldn’t have….  FUCK.  He doesn’t want to think about Jon while he’s willing himself out of existence.  But….

But Jon.  That little fucking moron.  Who he HATES.  Who he wants to hate.  

Does he hate Jon?  

Is Jon even still alive?  

If he’s dead, does he want to keep hating a dead man?  One who …wasn’t any worse than him.  

Which isn’t to say blameless, or not a twat at times….  But.  But not a monster.  And Tim can’t really blame him for not trusting anyone.  

Jon… was in the wrong, but so was Tim.  They have both been utter dicks.  Which has always been Tim’s least favorite plot.  God back in publishing… a Lifetime ago… he always hated books that hinged on characters fighting, not talking things out, not Understanding and that rift causing endless misery.  Has he really become something that he hated… still hates with every fiber of his being.  The number of books that set his teeth on edge from the first misunderstanding.  He actually hates most Rom Coms for that reason.  Which… surprised just about everyone he’s dated.  

He possibly groans.  He isn’t thinking clearly.  

He can’t hear himself groan.  

He really should give it up, and let himself pass out.  He hurts.  He’s tired.  If he wakes up… that’s a problem for later.  If he quietly slips away… well… maybe he’ll see Danny there.  Maybe he’ll see Sasha.  Hell, maybe if he sees Jon there, they can work something out.  If there is an afterlife… they’ll have all the time in the world.  (Or rather all the time in the next world).  And if not… well.  Eternal rest sounds pretty damn good.  

…But.  But Jon.  If Jon is alive down here… He should be close.  

And… Tim can’t let him die alone under this building.  He can’t lose someone else to the Circus while he sits idly by.  And Damn it, maybe he doesn’t want to meet Jon in the afterlife just yet, maybe he wants a break?  (And maybe he just loves him too much to completely give up on him… even though he knows he is far too late.  Too many bridges burned.  “We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.”  A line from Jon’s favorite play.)

Tim tries to move his fingertips.  And almost screams.  It hurts.  It hurts.  It hurts.  

He thinks he might scream.  But he can’t hear a sound.  

He braces himself and tries again.  Stretching his arms out as wide as he can.  Moving dust and ash and rubble.  He almost passes out.  Or maybe he does pass out.  Time has no meaning in this place.  

He finds a hand.  Cold.  And limp.  And his heart stops, first for fear that this is another mannequin.  Then for fear that this is all that is left of someone who was… could have been… is?  Something to Tim.  Everything to Tim.  

Tim thinks he might vomit.  

He feels out a little further as his head swims.  He feels the stretched and puckered skin of undoubtedly Jon’s right hand.  Unresponsive.  Possibly dead.  

Tim coughs.  Choking on the soot and heat and fumes in the air.  A massive weight both metaphorical and painfully tangible on all of him.  Aching pain breaking him into little shards, which turn right around and skewer him.  

Tim loses consciousness.  Old and cracked and dry paperback of The Princess Bride in his pocket.  Limp hand of his… friend? In his hand.  

Tim wakes up in hospital.  

His lungs hurt.  And everything feels distant and fuzzy.  Probably being pumped through with a lot of painkillers.  Probably for the best, or he might be more upset for waking up.  He wants to ask after Jon… but he can’t get his mouth to open.  

And suddenly he’s thinking about Westley.  Mostly dead.  Revived.  Head flopping around on his neck.  Danny had lost his shit laughing at that… it always made Tim feel sick after… everything.  The imitation of life… couldn’t quite shake the image of… that night.  Christ if he was on less drugs, he would probably puke.  

He would shake his head if he could move. 

“You just shook your head, that doesn’t make you happy?”

He is also struck by the thought that this is Kill Bill in reverse.  Nearly died getting his revenge, and then ending up in a coma.  (He watched those movies on Bad days.  When he downs enough whiskey to drown a horse.  He can’t say he really remembers much of them, but they were always cathartic.)  

He tries to look at his feet.  But he can’t even lift his head.  

He closes his eyes again.  

When he opens them, he sees Martin.  Worn and tired.  Looking older than ever, more haggard than Jon.  

Shit!  Jon.  Is Jon here?  Is he dead?  

He still can’t move.  

He looks at Martin again.  Martin is… talking?  Tim can’t make out anything.  Just the dull murmur of meaningless sound.  

…But.  

Martin is holding a book.  

A sooty, singed book.  

Martin sitting between two hospital beds, holding Tim’s old copy of The Princess Bride, facing Tim presumably so if Tim were to come around, Tim could read his lips.  

“I said, ‘What do you mean, “Westley dies”?  You mean dies?

My father nodded.  ‘Prince Humperdink kills him.’

‘He’s only faking though, right?’  

My father shook his head, closed the book all the way.

‘Aw shit,’ I said and I started to cry.  

‘I’m sorry,’ my father said.  ‘I’ll leave you alone,’ and he left me.”

Martin is also crying.  Just like Billy in the book.  

“’Who gets Humperdinck?’” Tim whispers.  Painfully aware of how dry his throat is.  It’s no more than a cracked whisper.  

And then he’s coughing.  

He can barely hear himself, but he swears he is coughing out a lung.  

Martin has dropped the book.  Staring in wide-eyed shock for a moment, before yelling something.  Scrambling up.  Probably getting a doctor.  Tim wishes he hadn’t gone.  

He looks are where Martin had been, but ends up getting a good look at the bed next to him.  And sees one, very still and very pale Jonathan Sims.  Very bandaged, and frighteningly still.  Tim can’t see breathing.  

And then he’s being poked and prodded and tested and Martin is talking to him.  And everything hurts.  Until it doesn’t and he’s lying still and Martin is smoothing his hair down and holding his hand and telling him that he’s been unconscious for a month.  That Jon is all but brain dead.  That Elias is in police custody.  

By the time Jon wakes up, five months later, Tim has decided to give him another chance, he and Martin are sharing a flat, there is another room ever hopeful that Jon will want to join then if- no, when he wakes up.  

Also.  Jon’s hair may or may not be dyed green.  

Maybe.  

No, Tim has no idea what everyone is looking at him like that for.  

#the magnus archives #tma #magnuspod #tim stoker #timothy stoker #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #cw suicidal ideation #cw nausea #cw injury #cw hospitals #fic #my fic #my writing #my art #my words

[wellhalesbells]

✨✨ TOP FIVES FOR 2020 ✨✨

2020 was, i think we can all agree, a massively chaotic year but i have never consumed as much media before in my life, so i thought others might benefit from my slothery uh, connoisseur.... ship?  yes, that.  below are the books, comics, shows, and movies that got me through!

B O O K S .

the starless sea, by erin morgenstern - i loooove this book because it loves me back.  it says: ‘oh, you’re a reader, well i have just the thing for you.’  it luxuriates in language and story and riddles and fairy tales and it feels like an entire library in a single tome.

they never learn, by layne fargo - oh fuuuuuck, this was satisfying.  i thought it might feel a little exploitative as it is very aware of the zeitgeist and likely would not exist without the #metoo movement but it never ever did.  this was a fucking ROMP, period.  reading about a woman getting away with murdering skeezy guy after rapey guy after shitty human just made me happier and happier.

moonflower murders, by anthony horowitz - this is the second in the susan ryeland series (and the first was hardcore good fun too) and really feels very classic mystery with the artful twist of catering to the literary community.  mainly because: susan isn’t a detective, she’s an editor and she gets drafted in this time because the clue to what happened to a missing woman is in a book she edited, if she can find it.  both of the books in this series have such an excellent coming together moment that is rare af to find.

the invisible life of addie larue, by v.e. schwab - the writing in this is just so good.  it has that feel to me where i just want to drop the book and open up my own page and let my fingers fly.  it’s that inspiring kind of writing that reminds you of all the things language can do.

crown of feathers/heart of flames, by nicki pau preto - aaahhh, this series is SO FREAKING GOOD!  why is there not more of a fandom for it, why???? it is so many of my favorite tropes all resting perfectly together to the point where you almost forget they’re tropes because they just so naturally evolved there.  ugh, it’s just.... it’s so heart-bursty good.

.... number 5, part 2?  raybearer, by jordan ifueko - this was just so original and i was invested af.  like, what a brilliant idea though and an even better execution??  i loved every character and am so looking forward to the next in the series so i can get to know them even better!!

honorable mentions (sh*t i still liked a whole heckuva lot): you/hidden bodies, by caroline kepnes // writers & lovers, by lily king // i’ll be gone in the dark, by michelle mcnamara // the faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home, by joseph fink & jeffrey cranor // girl, serpent, thorn, by melissa bashardoust // a little life, by hanya yanagihara // the guinevere deception, by kiersten white // obsidio (and the entire illuminae series), by amie kaufman & jay kristoff // the bone houses, by emily lloyd-jones // house of salt and sorrows, by erin a. craig // we hunt the flame, by hafsah faizal // savage legion, by matt wallace // blacktop wasteland, by s.a. cosby // crier’s war, by nina varela // the empress of salt and fortune/when the tiger came down the mountain, by nghi vo // upright women wanted, by sarah gailey // the monster of elendhaven, by jennifer giesbrecht // a deadly education, by naomi novik // you let me in, by camilla bruce // when you ask me where i’m going, by jasmin kaur // the lights go out in lychford/last stand in lychford (and the entire lychford series), by paul cornell // the devil and the dark water, by stuart turton // serpent & dove, by shelby mahurin // one by one, by ruth ware // ruthless gods (this was SUCH an upshot from the first book - it’s worth sticking with if you’re on the fence), by emily a. duncan // cemetery boys, by aiden thomas // the inheritance games, by jennifer lynn barnes // the fortunate ones (2021 release), by ed tarkington

C O M I C S .

cosmoknights, by hannah templer - the art was gorgeous, the gayness was glorious, and just.... hot HOOOOOOOOT lady knights in space?!  a princess winning her own hand?  find something not to love in there, i dare you.

don’t go without me, by rosemary valero-o’connell - wow. wow wow wow wow wow.  the writing was stunning, so lyrical and atmospheric and deep, and rosemary has to be one of my favorite artists but even that managed to come as a beautiful surprise because it was just so freaking bold.

through the woods, by emily carroll - i loooove emily carroll, the convergence of spine-tingling horror and art that feeds into it, that is both visually and aesthetically pleasing, is hard to beat!  p.s. i also read beneath the dead oak tree from her this year and it was also a BANGER.

the impending blindness of billie scott, by zoe thorogood - zoe is someone that i just want to follow.  she’s just starting and i want to be there for every single step.  i love her art style and her ability to tell a story with it.

above the clouds, by melissa pagluica - this was so unique, and such a baller concept, as nearly half the entire book is conveyed only through the art and yet you’re never once lost, never once confused as to what any character is thinking or feeling.  it’s a story within a story and only one of those gets words though they both are chock full of emotion!

um.... number 5, part 2? crowded, by christopher sebela - everything about this series is fun af.  crowd-funded assassination and a hirable bodyguard who’s rated like an uber driver???  and the chemistry between the two mains is so great and gay!!

honorable mentions: monster and the beast, by renji // long exposure, by kam ‘mars’ heyward // fence, by c.s. pacat // invisible kingdom, by g. willow wilson // ms. marvel, by g. willow wilson // heathen, by natasha alterici // not drunk enough, by tess stone // giant days, by john allison // die, by kieron gillen // be prepared, by vera brosgol // ascender (sequel to descender, which is also great), by jeff lemire // the unbeatable squirrel girl, by ryan north // bang! bang! boom!, by melanie schoen // gideon falls, by jeff lemire // life of melody, by mari costa // cry wolf girl, by ariel slamet ries // the tea dragon society, by katie o’neill // ptsd, by guillaume singelin // heartstopper, by alice oseman // solutions and other problems, by allie brosh // finding home, by hari conner // the magic fish, by trung le nguyen // something is killing the children, by james tynion iv // the weight of them, by noelle stevenson // spill zone, by scott westerfeld // skyward, by joe henderson // miles morales, by saladin ahmed

F I L M S.

parasite, dir. bong joon ho - oh it was satisfying, oh it was suspenseful, oh i had to watch some of it through my fingers but i loooooooved it.  such a good story and so well made.

knives out, dir. rian johnson - okay, everything about this movie was amazing.  every single character was fun as hell and i could’ve watched an entire movie about each of them.  what a great fucking mystery!

blindspotting, dir. carlos lopez estrada -  this made my heart hurt so damn much.  what glorious writing, acting, and story!

portrait of a lady on fire, dir. celine sciamma - gooooorgeous cinematography, amazing chemistry, and such a soft, atmospheric film.

the farewell, dir. lulu wang - i cried and my heart felt so full and i love it so so much.

um.... number 5, part 2? someone great, dir. jennifer kaytin robinson - no part of me expected to love a netflix movie this much but it’s a love story that doesn’t get told that often??  the end of a relationship and the true love of friendship and i love these girls and i love jenny and nate’s broken relationship.

honorable mentions: eighth grade, dir. bo burnham // booksmart, dir. olivia wilde // midsommar, dir. ari aster // the curse of la llorona, dir. michael chaves // the secret life of pets 2, dirs. chris renaud & jonathan del val // jojo rabbit, dir. taika waititi // the invisible man, dir. leigh whannell // the favourite, dir. yorgos lanthimos // can you ever forgive me?, dir. marielle heller // troop zero, dirs. bert & bertie // ready or not, dirs. matt bettinelli-olpin & tyler gillett // brave, dirs. mark andrews & brenda chapman & steve purcell // the half of it, dir. alice wu // palm springs, dir. max barbakow // doctor sleep, dir. mike flanaghan // uncut gems, dirs. benny sadfie & josh sadfie // birds of prey, dir. cathy van // bloodshot, dir. dave wilson // the old guard, dir. gina prince-bythewood // enola holmes, dir. harry bradbeer // hocus pocus, dir. kenny ortega // always be my maybe, dir. nahnatchka khan // finding dory, dirs. andrew stanton & angus maclane // die hard, dir. john mctiernan

S H O W S .

black sails (2014) - this show, this shooooooooow.  i cannot, it just makes me want to cry with how good it is.  the characters, the EMOTIONS, the story, the plaaaaaan.  like, the creators clearly had a plan for every single step of this show and it was a gOOD, GOOD PLAN.

the untamed (2019) - truly, cheesy good fun with one of the best gay romances ever.  i love these characters and their relationships to each other and the way it glories in its own ridiculousness.

the righteous gemstones (2019) - one of the things that bothered me about my next choice (the ratio of female to male nudity) was so much more realistic in this one (i mean, we’ve all gotten five thousand dick pics and i know like three people?  so the fact that there is so rarely male nudity in shows when there are tits everywhere..... no, how does that even make a tiny bit of sense?).  this show was such great, wonderful, awful fun.  they’re not great people and the show is under no delusion about that and it’s GLORIOUS!

the witcher (2019) - this was just hella fun, i loved the characters and the fantasy elements.  i’m excited for the next season, it’s just entertaining swashbuckling through and through!

fargo (2014) - all of this was really very enjoyable with the through line being somebody fucks shit up and gets involved in something they really shouldn’t be involved in that’s going to swallow them whole.  season one and season three were my stand-out favorites but they were all so violent, clever, and vicious!

um.... number 5, part 2? central park (2020) - um..... so many of the hamilton actors in a muscial cartoon drawn and written by the bob’s burgers team? WHAT ABOUT THAT DOESN’T SOUND AMAZING?!  it was such a joy to hear daveed diggs and leslie odom jr.’s voices again!!

honorable mentions: schitt’s creek // the mandalorian // mr. robot // broadchurch // mindhunter // jack ryan // the good place // the end of the f***ing world // big little lies // elite // kidding // servant // letterkenny // curb your enthusiasm // i am not okay with this // ozark // buzzfeed unsolved: true crime/supernatural // you // runaways // dear white people // dickinson // brooklyn nine-nine // will & grace // 9-1-1 // dead to me // solar opposites // never have i ever // killing eve // what we do in the shadows // grace and frankie // avenue 5 // roswell, new mexico // the bold type // evil // tuca & bertie // impulse // the umbrella academy // watchmen // infinity train // corporate // search party // on becoming a god in central florida // a.p. bio // criminal: uk // the morning show // mythic quest // last week tonight // prodigal son // the great

#the starless sea #the invisible life of addie larue #the untamed #knives out #2020 favorites list!! #i tried to stick to shows i both started and finished in 2020 otherwise like schitt's creek and the good place would be in top five #same for comics #uh oh i've found the keyboard again

[eldritchteaparty]

Chapters: 19/22 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Rosie Zampano, Oliver Banks, Original Elias Bouchard, Peter Lukas, Annabelle Cane, Melanie King, Georgie Barker, Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Basira Hussain, Allan Schrieber Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, I'll add characters and tags as they come up, Reference to injuries and blood, Character Death In Dream, Nudity (not sexual or graphic), Nightmares, Fighting, Spiders Summary: Following the events of MAG 200, Jon and Martin find themselves in a dimension very much like the one they came from--with second chances and more time.

Chapter summary: The group settles on a course of action much faster than Martin imagined they would.

Chapter 19 of my post-canon fix-it fic is up! Read at AO3 above or read here below.

Tumblr master post with links to previous chapters is here.

***

Martin was still tired as they drew close to Hill Top Road the next morning. It wasn’t surprising; the best sleep he’d gotten, other than the first few hours he’d slept before the spiders, had been in Allan’s car on the way out. He’d slept completely through their stop in Canterbury, where Allan had picked up his lab equipment. He woke up with his head on Jon’s shoulder in the back seat of the car, just a few miles from their destination.

“Ow,” he said as he straightened up, his neck cracking.

“I told you you could stay home,” Jon said. “You barely slept.”

“Don’t.” Martin was cross as he rolled his neck, trying to work out the cramp, and Jon put a hand on his arm.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“It’s all right.”

That about doubled the number of words they’d said to each other that morning—and now they were here, back at Hill Top Road. From the street, the house appeared less foreboding than it had the last time; it seemed brighter, somehow, despite the cloudiness of the day. Maybe the owner had been back—or maybe the most recent occupant had left.

Martin waited for Tim to get out of the seat in front of him, then got out of the car himself. He hadn’t really spoken to Tim directly since he’d shown up yesterday, and wasn’t at all sure how Tim was feeling toward him. He was therefore both reassured and taken back when Tim put a hand on his shoulder on his way to the boot of the car.

I must be looking pretty good, he thought. They’re not even asking if I’m ok anymore.

It was just the four of them; Elias and the others had opted to stay together at the house. Jon had of course wanted to go, and that meant Martin went too; Tim had also made up his mind to go once he knew Jon was going. Martin watched as Allan opened the boot and began to pull out a number of padded carrying cases of different sizes, handing a few to Tim as he did.

“I know I fell asleep, sorry—what exactly are you—”

“We’re going to attempt to measure this—gap between the dimensions.” He handed Martin one final bag, and closed the boot as he did. “All of these instruments are designed to measure different types of energy.”

“They’re all from your lab?”

“Most of them,” Allan said, a small grin on his face; Tim shook his head.

“If I get in trouble for any of that—”

“I told you, no one will even know they’re missing. We’ll get it all back this afternoon.”

“So wait—this will show what, that the gap—exists?” Martin asked.

Allan shrugged. “Well—in all honesty, not really. If we get no unusual readings, that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It could just mean we don’t know how to measure it. And if we do—it doesn’t really tell us why. It would just be—well, consistent with some combination of my ideas about the entities and dimensional travel, really.”

“Um—oh. Ok.”

Jon sighed, and Martin recognized it specifically as Jon’s impatient sigh. It was one he had heard a lot in the past, although not so much recently. He supposed from Jon’s perspective, it was kind of a waste of time to not really prove the existence of something he already knew was there. As far as Martin was concerned, though, they could take all the time they wanted.

As they approached the porch, Martin found his impression from the street had been correct. There were many fewer cobwebs on the porch than there had been the last time. The lock, however, was still broken when Jon tried the door, which suggested the owner had not been back.

“You think she’s gone?” he asked Jon.

“Yes.”

“Who?” Tim looked at them suspiciously.

“Annabelle,” Jon replied casually.

“Annabelle.” Tim halted at the top of the steps on the front porch. “She’s here? Was here?”

“Was. I would have said something if—" He trailed off as he saw the look on Tim’s face. “Yes, well, the point is she’s not here.”

“Sure,” Tim said, in a way that made it clear he was not at all sure, but he did follow the rest of them into the house.

“This way.” Jon led them back to the spot in the center of the house where the scarred floorboards resided.

He’s so confident. Martin remembered how different it had been the last time they were here. Jon had been so sick; he had been grasping at straws for any way to regain his connection to the Eye. Martin certainly hadn’t wanted that to happen, but he also hadn’t wanted him to be miserable. Now, though, Jon was pushing ahead, jumping in—he was eager, excited even. Given the circumstances, Martin didn’t like it much more than he had liked things the last time they were here.

“That’s it?” Allan said, staring down at the floor. “Not really what I was expecting.”

“Well—obviously it’s not the gap itself,” Jon explained with slight irritation, as if he were offended at Allan’s disappointment. “It’s a representation of it. Certainly someone would have reported it if it were a cavernous maw extending into the infinite reaches of—”

“Yes, all right,” Allan, unbothered, set down the equipment he was carrying and seated himself on the floor next to it. “Let’s see—Tim, bring those over here, please.”

“Yes, sir.” Tim set his bags down on the floor next to Allan and stepped back near Martin to observe.

“So I’m thinking—hmm—let’s just start with this.” He unpacked a small handheld meter and held it up for them to see. “This is a Geiger counter.”

Tim raised his eyebrows. “That’s for radiation, right?”

“Yes,” Allan replied, as he pressed a button and the instrument’s screen flickered to life. He looked up in their direction just long enough to catch the anxious look on Martin’s face.

“No need to worry,” Allan said cheerfully as he stood up. “I’ll be looking at this from several angles, and this is just somewhere to start. Don’t let the idea of radiation bother you. There’s some level of radiation around us all the time—background radiation, it’s completely—well, not harmless, exactly, but well within the bounds of what the human body can withstand. This particular instrument is sensitive enough that we should be able to see relatively minor deviations from what we’d expect.”

“Oh,” Martin said, not knowing what else to say.

“All right, here we go.” Allan held the instrument up in the air and pressed a button and waited while it emitted an uneven series of a few clicks, and then checked the screen. He repeated this several more times, then nodded.

“Well?” Tim asked.

“Oh, sorry. I haven’t really done anything yet, just measuring background levels. Nothing out of the ordinary, pretty much what you’d expect for this part of England. But now I’ll know what I’m comparing to when I measure—that.” He gave another unimpressed look at the jagged mark running over the floor before bending over it with the instrument in hand. He moved it close to the mark and repeated the same process of measurements—pressing a button and then waiting for the clicks, then repositioning it to another spot, pressing the button and waiting again. “Huh.”

“What?” Martin couldn’t read Allan’s expression at all.

“Nothing,” Allan said, shrugging as he stood straight again. “I was averaging in my head, of course, so I might not be quite right, but—it would be like taking your temperature and reading 37 degrees exactly.”

Martin was relieved, but Jon, standing apart from the rest of the group, did not seem to be feeling the same way.

“Well, let’s move on,” Allan said, returning to his equipment pile and choosing a new device. “Let’s try this one. It’s for—oh—electromagnetic fields, radio frequencies—it’s sort of a cheap piece of equipment, actually, not very precise—but it should give us a good general picture.” He squatted down next to the mark on the floor again, adjusted a dial on the instrument, and began to move it closer and further away. He adjusted the dial several times as he continued to move it around the floor.

“Still nothing,” he said after a few minutes, sitting back on his haunches.

“Then that’s not the right way to measure it,” Jon said.

“I said when we came in that was a strong possibility,” Allan said, but it was clear Jon didn’t like this turn of events. “I’ve got a few more things we can—"

“It’s here,” Jon said.

“Can’t you just know the right way to measure it, then?” Tim’s tone was sarcastic, but Jon paused.

“Well…” He concentrated for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Apparently I can’t.” His growing frustration was obvious.

“Hey.” Now that Martin was starting to feel a bit easier about everything, he felt a little bit bad for Jon. “That’s—that’s all right. That just means we’ll need more time to—”

Martin’s attempt at soothing him didn’t work. “But it’s right there. Damn it, I know it’s there. I can feel it, it’s like it’s just on the other side of—”

“Oh,” Allan said. Martin’s eyes jumped back to the instrument in his hand, still hovering just over the mark in the floor, and there was some kind of movement on the digital screen. A moment later, it had gone quiet again.

“What was that?” Tim asked.

“I don’t know.” Allan frowned. “It’s like there was a sudden—pulse of electrical activity. A lot of it.”

“Jon,” Tim said, looking over at him, “did you do something? While you were talking?”

“That couldn’t possibly—” Allan started to say, but Jon cut him off.

“Yes,” Jon said. “I—I don’t know, I was looking for the—well, really, the tape—it’s—”

“Oh,” Allan said again, as the numbers on the screen resumed their movement. He walked it intently over different parts of the floor, then moved it further away and then closer again. Martin couldn’t really follow the whole thing from where he was standing, but Allan’s body language was enough to concern him. “This—this doesn’t make sense. Even if—Jon, stop. Whatever you’re doing, stop.”

“All right.”

“Incredible,” Allan said after a moment had passed. “That really shouldn’t be possible. There’s no—” He stood and walked toward Jon, and extended the meter toward him. “Do it one more time.”

“Don’t—” Martin started.

“I’m all right,” Jon snapped, but then softened as Martin felt the slight sting of his tone. “I’m—I’ll be careful. I’m fine right now.”

Allan was concentrating hard as he looked at the screen. “What was—have you done it yet?”

“No, I was—”

“It’s just that—never mind. Do it again. If—if you’re ok.”

Jon nodded, and glanced briefly in Martin’s direction. “I’m ok.”

Martin watched as Allan moved the instrument around Jon for the next thirty seconds or so, again switching the dial several times.

“Well?” Tim asked, as Allan stepped away.

“I don’t know,” he said hoarsely. “Tim, can you—can you fetch the Geiger counter for me again?”

Tim did, and Allan stood back from Jon as he held it up into the air again. They heard the occasional irregular click as he did.

“So for now, don’t, um—just don’t,” he said as he stepped toward Jon. The frequency of the clicks began to increase as he moved the meter closer to his head, and Allan made a small sound in his throat as he flipped a switch on the instrument. “Let’s just—keep the sound off for right now.”

Martin could feel some of the blood drain from his face.

“Ok, now—know something,” Allan asked.

“What?” Jon said. “Sorry, it’s always difficult to think of—”

“Anything. Just not the—the gap. I want to see if—”

“Did I have coffee or tea this morning?” Tim asked.

Jon thought. “Coffee.”

“Stop,” Allan said. “Stop.” He took a step back, white faced, and looked at Jon as if he had just appeared there.

“What?”

“Can I ask—how long did you say you’ve been doing this?”

“Knowing things? Uh—a few years? I mean—not always like this, at first it was much harder, and—"

“A few years.” Allan turned the thought over. “Ok. I’m going to say this once—because I think you should know. I don’t see—I don’t see how you’re—well, alive.”

There were long seconds of silence before Jon answered.

“I’m fine.”

Martin exploded. “You are not fine.”

“I just meant in the sense that—”

“I know, and—”

“I am alive. That is the point.”

More long seconds ticked by.

“You heal though, right?” Tim said quietly. “Like—after you—like when I found you in front of the Institute.”

“Yes.” A look of sudden understanding passed across Jon’s face. “Yes, that’s right. That—that would make sense.”

“Would it?” Allan looked at Martin. “You, um—sorry to—you’re—well, you’re sharing a room, so—I imagine you’re—close?”

Martin wasn’t sure what Allan was getting at. “Um—”

“Yes. He heals too. Or, he has, in the past.” Oh, Martin thought, after he heard Jon’s answer.

Oh.

“Wait. Are you saying that being near Jon is—”

“I don’t know,” Allan said. “I really don’t know. This is entirely unprecedented. It really shouldn’t—” He started to say something else, but hesitated.

“What?” Jon asked.

“I—” he hesitated again. “I want to do more tests, but I’m not sure if it’s—well, entirely ethical.”

“To ask me to keep going, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Allan looked at Martin.

“It’s not up to me,” Martin said.

Allan looked between Martin and Jon. “I’m, uh—I’m going to run out to the car for some extra equipment. Tim, come with me? I could use your help.”

“Sure,” Tim answered, and followed him out.

Martin waited a moment after they were gone, then said quietly, “I’m not sleeping away from you.”

“Martin.” Jon walked over to where he was standing and reached out to touch Martin’s hand. “Of course not. That’s ridiculous.”

“Good.” He had more to say, but he didn’t.

“Come on. That’s not what this is about. You don’t want me to do this.”

Martin sighed. “Fine. No, I don’t. I don’t want you to do any of this. Not just the tests, or whatever. Like—any of this.”

“I have to,” Jon said. “You know that.”

“Why do you think I didn’t say it? I can’t stop you. And I’d rather you not shut me out.”

“Martin, that—” He stopped himself, and squeezed Martin’s hand instead. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

Martin let his hand fall away as Allan and Tim returned; Allan had put on a long-sleeved lab coat, and was holding a pair of gloves and a mask. “Just a precaution,” he said. “If you want to go ahead.”

“Yes,” Jon said. “I do.”

Martin watched as Allan pulled out yet another meter from a different bag. “Martin—can you hand me that?” he asked, indicating the case Martin was still carrying. He’d forgotten about it.

“Oh. Sure.” Martin handed it to him and he began to unpack that as well.

“So—this is so I can record the readings,” he said, as he pulled some wires out and began to connect them to the new meter. “And this is—it uses a more powerful method of detection than the Geiger counter. It’s not as sensitive, but that’s, uh—well, that’s not going to be an issue.”

Martin suddenly realized how much he didn’t want to be there anymore.

“I’m going outside. I’ll just be out front.” Without waiting for anyone’s reaction, he made his way back to the front of the house. He stood on the porch, his arms folded and resting on the railing. He looked out over the lawn. The rest of the neighborhood, apart from this house, really was a suburb. It seemed nice enough; maybe not a great neighborhood, but not a bad one, certainly. It hadn’t really done anything to deserve this awful place.

He sat and watched the clouds roll overhead and wondered it if would rain. He tried not to think too much about what was going on inside the house, what they were doing and where it would lead. He had no idea how long he had been standing there when he became aware that he wasn’t alone.

“Hey,” Tim said, as Martin looked over at him.

“Hey,” Martin answered, then went back to looking up at the sky. “So—what’s going on in there?”

“I don’t know,” Tim said. “It’s like some sort of weird playdate? It’s over my head. Allan keeps turning dials and saying things like incredible and amazing and then Jon—”

“Never mind,” Martin said. “Just—is he keeping himself together? Jon, I mean?”

“He seems to be.”

They looked out at the sky and lawn together.

“Martin,” Tim said eventually, “I know I said this before, but I want you to know I meant it. Jon is lucky to have you.”

“Hm.”

“Listen, I know—I know this has to be hard for you. Before we—before we make any decisions, I want you to know that—”

“Don’t,” Martin said coldly.

“All right.” Tim nodded and returned to looking back over the railing. “Do you want to be alone?”

No, Martin thought. I don’t ever want to be alone again. He wanted to scream it.

Instead, he just said, “Not particularly.”

“Good,” Tim said. “I don’t particularly want to go back in there.”

***

“So—wait,” Melanie said, looking at Allan over her half-empty dinner plate. “You’re saying you don’t really know anything at all, then?”

“Well, yes and no.” He was struggling to find words as they sat together in the great room again. “What I’m saying is—from a scientific perspective, which of course is why I’m here—there’s no way to know what any of this means. I’ve never heard of anything like this before. It’s completely unique, as far as I know.”

“So we can’t prove there’s a gap between dimensions, and we can’t prove the entities exist,” Sasha clarified.

“Correct,” Allan said. “I can’t even begin to suggest a mechanism for anything I saw today.”

“But you did see something today,” Melanie prodded.

“Well—yes,” Allan said. “That’s an understatement. We saw massive fluctuations of energy just—across almost the entire spectrum. And—again, I have no way to explain it or understand it, but—Jon does appear to be able to manipulate it, to some extent.”

“Well, that’s definitely something,” Melanie said. “You said you recorded your readings. Do you think you’ll learn anything else from going back through them?”

“Not—not in a way that could help us. It will take years to even begin to make any real sense of this. As—as a scientist. To be perfectly clear, I—I can’t vouch for any particular course of action. I have no way of verifying that there has ever been any travel across dimensions, or that—starting an apocalypse would provide the energy required to do it again, or—or that anything we discussed yesterday is even a possibility.”

“As a scientist,” Georgie repeated. “What about—as a person? What do you think?”

“I’m—I’m not sure that’s really what’s important here.”

“Yes, it is.” It was one of the few things Elias had said at all since they’d come home.

“I agree,” Sasha said. “I’d like to know what you think.”

“Well—personally”—he looked around at the group— “after what I’ve heard from all of you, and after talking with Elias last night—I believe Jon.”

It was quiet for a moment as the group absorbed this. Martin’s stomach, which had already rejected even the concept of any food he’d thought about putting in it that night, tightened painfully.

“Ok,” Georgie said slowly. “Well—for the sake of argument—Jon, do you really think you could do it? Could you—could you really move us to another dimension? In a way that—well, will actually help things?”

“I can do it,” Jon said, without hesitation.

“No,” Martin said.

The discomfort was tangible; Martin could tell nobody wanted to speak.

“Martin,” Sasha finally said, “why—why are you so against this?”

“I’ve already said. It’s too dangerous.”

“So you think he can’t do it? That it won’t work?”

Martin drew his hand down firmly over his mouth.

“Say what you have to say,” Jon urged him. Martin didn’t care for how calm he was. “They should hear it.”

Martin stared at him. “Ok, fine. Fine, I’ll say it. If you think you can do it—I’m sure you can. I’m just not sure you will. What if—what if this time—what if the Eye finally just takes you?”

“It won’t. It didn’t last time.”

“Didn’t it?”

“No. Not—not like that. I still—I still got to choose.”

“And we still don’t know what Annabelle’s been trying to get you to do.”

“She doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, really?”

“Do you believe me that I’ll never let them out of here? The entities? That’s what she wants.”

Martin paused; he knew his panic was coming across to everyone. “Yes. But that’s not—even if you don’t—look, if it fails, that’s it for us. We’re stuck in an apocalypse. This world is stuck in an apocalypse. You said that yourself.”

“And it’s still true. It is a risk. But I don’t think I’ll fail.”

“But what happens to you? What if—what if we lose you?”

Jon looked away.

“Jon?” Georgie prompted.

“It’s—it’s a possibility.”

“How much of a possibility?” Georgie asked.

“It’s—um—” Jon cleared his throat. “It’s not unlikely.”

“I see,” Sasha said.

“That matters, right?” Martin somehow managed to get the words out. “Tell me that matters to the rest of you.”

“Of course it matters,” Sasha said. “I didn’t—"

“No, it doesn’t,” Jon said.

“Jon—”

Several people began to talk at the same time, but it was Tim who won out.

“Listen,” he said. “Listen. I know—I know this is going to sound awful, but—I agree with Jon.”

“It does sound awful,” Sasha reprimanded him. “It sounds completely awful.”

“Just hear me out.” Tim spoke his words slowly and deliberately. “If I were Jon—if I could stop this—if I had this chance to—to save the people they haven’t hurt yet—I would. I wouldn’t hesitate. And I wouldn’t want anyone to stop me.”

“Yes, you would,” Jon said. “You did.”

“And—I know I’ve been angry—but this isn’t about that. It’s not because I blame him. It’s because he’s the only one who can. I think—I think this should be Jon’s choice. That’s all.”

“Thank you, Tim.” Jon was still calm, controlled. Martin hated it.

Tim briefly met Martin’s eyes before looking down to the floor in front of him. “And I wouldn’t wait. I’d—I’d want to just do it. If we really can’t learn anything else, I say we do it soon. Tomorrow, if we can. Prevent as much further damage as possible.”

“I agree,” Jon said.

“No,” Martin said. “That’s insane. Are you insane?” He looked around at the group; none of them would look back at him. “Have you all lost your minds? Are you considering this?”

“I—I don’t know,” Sasha said, finally raising her face. “Are we?”

“Jesus Christ.” Martin got to his feet, not really sure where he was going; he was halfway there before he realized he was headed for the door to the back of the house. Behind him, he heard several people speaking, although he had no idea if they were talking to him; he couldn’t process it anymore. He couldn’t think at all until he felt the cool night air on his face. He stopped, heart pounding, and crumpled onto the porch against the back of the house. For the first time in his recent memory, he wanted to cry; of course, now he couldn’t make the tears come.

Behind him, he heard the door open and close.

“Go away.” He didn’t really care who it was.

“I’d rather not.” Beside him, Jon lowered himself onto the porch; for some reason, Martin had assumed it would be one of the others. He was surprised to find he felt slightly mollified. “We don’t have to talk. It’s just—I don’t have anywhere else I want to be right now.”

“Come off it. Go back in and keep explaining why you need to martyr yourself.”

“I’ve said what I need to say. It’s better if they talk without us.”

Martin sighed heavily. “They’re going to go for it, aren’t they?”

Jon didn’t answer him. Instead, he moved closer to Martin, leaning into him and resting his head on his shoulder. Hollow as he felt, Martin didn’t even think; his automatic response was to put his arm around Jon, pulling him in even closer. He pressed his lips to the top of Jon’s ear.

“We never had a chance, did we,” he said. “The two of us.”

“We still might.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“I never believed we’d be here, either.” Jon said.

“That’s not very reassuring.”

Jon turned so that his back was against Martin’s chest, and Martin did what he always did; he slipped his hand up under the edge of Jon’s shirt, bringing it up to the scar on Jon’s ribcage. Instead of protesting or merely tolerating it, though, this time Jon brought his own hand to rest over Martin’s on the outside of his shirt.

“I loved you here too, you know,” Jon said quietly. “Before this, I mean. In this world.”

“Oh, I know,” Martin said.

“Well. Here I thought I was making a grand romantic confession, but—never mind, I guess.”

“No, it’s—I’m sorry.” He kissed Jon’s temple softly by way of apology. “Thank you. I just meant now that—now that we’ve been together, now that I know what you’re like when you—it’s sort of obvious, looking back. Plus, there was your pin.”

“My pin?”

“You know—when we had forgotten everything when we first—and you couldn’t remember your pin number on your laptop.”

“Oh,” Jon said, and even in the dark Martin saw a smile play across his lips. It had been too long since he had seen Jon smile. “Right. I used your birthday. That’s—is it odd that I feel embarrassed?”

“Frankly, yes.”

“Sasha just—she insisted I set it in front of her, and then she kept guessing them—”

“Because you kept typing 1234.”

“Well—yes, but—anyway, it just came into my head, and I knew no one would ever guess, because—because I was never going to tell anyone how I felt. Especially not you.”

“Yeah, well—I wasn’t going to either.” He held Jon tighter. “We’re a couple of idiots. You know that, right?”

“Yes.” Jon turned his face up and back, and Martin couldn’t help but kiss him.

“Martin,” Jon said, “I know—I know I’ll never change your mind.”

“If it were me, you would never go along with it. You would never let me—you didn’t, actually.”

“I—” Jon paused. “No. You’re right. I’m asking you to do something I couldn’t do.”

“Thank you.”

“I just—I want you to understand. I want you to hear me.” He paused.

“I’m listening.”

“Nothing will ever fix what I’ve done.”

“You didn’t do this. Jonah Magnus did this. The Web did this. The—never mind. Go on.”

“Nothing will ever undo it. Every day I think about—about Sasha. And Tim. And Daisy. The other ones, the ones who—and an entire world of human beings who suffered because of things I did. And then there’s everyone here in this world who—none of them should ever have—” Jon’s voice cracked. “But I can stop it. I can make it so it doesn’t get worse. Or at least—at least give it a real chance. And I have to try.”

“And you have to try tomorrow.”

“Tim was right, Martin. Every day that passes like this is—”

“Tim is just worried about Danny.”

“Is that wrong of him?”

“I—no. No, I guess not. My point is just that it’s not like he’s—it’s still completely selfish.”

“He’s not being any more selfish than you.”

“I know that.” His chest ached as he breathed in, and he sighed reflexively. Jon turned just enough to tuck his head against Martin’s collarbone, and he felt his chest loosen just a little. “Ok, but really—what about Annabelle? That’s not being selfish. We both know what she wants—but we have no idea how she’s trying to get it. And we’re probably walking into it.”

“Probably.”

“Well then, why—”

“Because I don’t intend to give it to her.”

“But that’s exactly the point, we don’t know how—”

“Do you really think that waiting will solve that? Even if she is trying to push me—do you really think that she won’t just—change tactics? Adapt?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“If we wait to—I don’t know, learn something, let something happen that she doesn’t want—do you really believe she won’t have some other plan?”

He hadn’t ever thought that far ahead, to what would happen after they waited, whatever that meant. He realized with a sinking heart that no, he didn’t really believe it.

“But then—why are we doing anything at all? Why are we even bothering? If we can’t ever do the right thing—”

“Because we have to try. I have to try. I just do. Doing nothing would be—and maybe—maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Yeah. That—that’s our thing, for sure. Luck.”

Jon reached for Martin’s free hand, the one that wasn’t against his heart, and pulled it to his mouth; he kissed each knuckle in turn. “We haven’t been entirely unlucky.”

Martin was out of things to say. Once more, Jon had already won. Everyone in the room behind them was deciding to go ahead with this stupid plan. There was nothing he could do that was going to stop it.

Well—as he thought about it, he did have one more thing to say.

“Jon—I don’t—I don’t want to go into this like—like last time. So—just so you know—nothing’s changed. I’m going with you. Wherever that is.”

Jon held his breath for a moment before answering. “And if I can save you—"

“Then you’d better save both of us.”

“Martin—”

“No. You know what’s out there for me without you, and—I don’t want it. You can’t—" Jon turned suddenly in his arms, so that Martin’s hand slid from his ribs to his shoulder.

He kissed him.

“Jon—”

“Please.”

They were still kissing several minutes later when Jon abruptly sat up; he opened his mouth to say something, but then learned back in toward Martin.

“No,” Martin said, putting a hand up to Jon’s face. “You know something, don’t you? They decided and you know.”

Jon nodded, sliding his hand over Martin’s as he did. “Yes.”

“Ok.”

“They want to do it. Tomorrow.”

***

It was hours later; Martin didn’t know how long he had lain awake. He’d come back to the bedroom on his own at first; he’d stayed for some of the planning, listened to their excitement, their nerves, their arguing—but it had quickly gotten to the point where he couldn’t do it anymore. He knew where he would be anyway, and that was with Jon; he had nothing else to contribute. The looks he’d gotten when he’d stood up had been seared into his consciousness, a mixture of worry and pity.

“Martin,” Sasha called to him as he was leaving, “are you—”

“Yes,” he’d said.

He’d gone to brush his teeth before getting in bed. He didn’t know what possessed him, particularly, but when he saw his reflection in the mirror, he did something he hadn’t done in a long while. He removed his shirt to look at his own scars. They were still there; they were exactly the same as they had been on the day he’d first seen them, dark red to pale white, torn and jagged and alternately smooth.

He was tired, he’d realized. He wanted to sleep, of course, he was still exhausted from the night before—but it was more than that. This was all just enough. Maybe it was all right. Maybe he and Jon had already had more time than they were meant to. Maybe it was time to let it go. Just—just so long as he didn’t end up alone.

He’d gotten in bed. He’d almost fallen asleep before Jon had come in, but after Jon had undressed and slipped under the sheets next to him, the restlessness had begun. Each time Jon moved, or sighed, or breathed even a little bit out of rhythm, Martin’s brain nudged him awake again. And now, here he was, sleepless and empty.

He breathed out, trying to reset his mind.

“Martin.”

“Sorry.” He’d thought Jon had been asleep.

“What—no, don’t apologize, just—go to sleep. You need rest for tomorrow.”

“I can’t.”

There was silence, and for a moment, he thought Jon had drifted off again.

“Martin, I’m—I’m not leaving you. I won’t go without you. You need to sleep.”

“I—I know.” He was lying, and Jon knew he was lying.

“Martin, this isn’t—this isn’t like last time. For one thing, I’d—I’d have to steal a car to get back to London on my own. All right? Can you trust me?”

Martin swallowed; that was exactly the problem, he realized. “I want to. I just—”

“Ok. All right. You’re right, of course you—that’s not fair for me to ask. I—hang on.” He saw the light from Jon’s cell phone; he heard him stand up and rummage through the suitcase on his side of the bed before sitting down on the mattress again.

“Jon—”

“Here. Give me your hand.” He held up his arm; Jon grabbed his hand, and Martin realized Jon was trying something around their wrists in the light from the phone.

“What—”

“It’s an old drawstring that pulled out from a pair of shorts. I never took it out of my suitcase.” He grabbed one end of the string in his mouth and pulled with his other hand. “There. I can’t possibly untie that without waking you up.”

“Are you going to be able to sleep?”

“I think so.” Jon turned off the light on his phone, and Martin felt the tug on his arm as Jon leaned over to put it back on the table next to the bed. “Anyway, I’m—I’m all right. You’re—not.”

“This—” Martin started to laugh. “This is ridiculous.”

“Yes. It is. Does it matter?” Jon interlaced his fingers with Martin’s and carefully folded up their bound arms between them; he brought his head to rest on the pillow next to Martin’s shoulder.

“I—I guess not.” He didn’t even realize he was finally crying until Jon reached up with his other hand to touch his cheek. He felt better for it, somehow; feeling something was good. It was better than the emptiness.

“Sleep.”

He did.

#the magnus archives #tma #mag pod #tma spoilers #jonmartin #tma fanfic #my writing

[pondermoniums]

A Rant Nobody Asked for About Stranger Things season 3.

feat. my personal pet peeves.

Disclaimer: when I first watched Stranger Things 3, I massively enjoyed it. I thought it finally captured the 80s aesthetic and vibe with the colors, the neon, and music. I even enjoyed it the SECOND time I watched it, although I was officially aware of some major flaws by that point.

1. The Coca Cola flex.

CocaCola has been all over this show ever since Tommy handed Steve one as a makeshift ice pack after his fight with Jonathan in s1. And then by season 3 it’s just....obnoxious???? And so unnecessary??? Karen Wheeler’s drinking one by the pool in episode one. Billy knocks into someone during his first day being flayed, and a coke rolls over the concrete.

LUCAS DOES AN ENTIRE MONOLOGUE ABOUT NEW COKE.

I mean, Jesus, we get it. CocaCola basically owns Georgia, where a lot of American TV shows are filmed.....but......you’re literally CocaCola. This kind of flex is entirely unnecessary and therefore pathetic.

2. Karen and Billy

Okay, listen. I thought their interaction in season 2 was H I L A R I O U S.  But I’m someone who has looked 21 since I was 14, thanks to being an early bloomer. I get it. The cocky prowess of looking older than your peers. Getting to look adults in the eye and get that tiny bit of respect with nothing more than just looking like they do. And, as a writer, the contrast between thirsty, older Karen with young and equally thirsty Billy is an odd pair of puzzle pieces that fit really hilariously - largely because it’s so unexpected, maybe. And frankly, I think it’s one of the first scenes where Dacre’s acting really made my eyes fall out of my head, he did so well.

But it should have ended there.

I’ve been to a LOT of public pools in my day (I’m 26 but hush), and I have NEVER seen older women thirsting over the lifeguards. Ever. It’s predatory - an attribute most women understand all too well - unprofessional, and just downright gross. Their whole interaction in s3 is for “the male lens,” which Hollywood really needs to figure out by now is outdated, predatory, disgusting, and not good writing.

3. Glossing over Billy Chugging Chemicals

Bouncing off of #2, is Karen’s total negligence of Billy’s condition. Many people have pointed it out before, but a row of mothers being completely ???? about Billy’s condition is a raging red flag of bad writing.

(Also that it was written by men, because women are hard-wired to be super aware of other women - a tactic of living on guard in a man’s world all the damn time. So you can always count on a mother, grandmother, or a brave teen/20-something to be the one to walk up to a person who doesn’t look well in order to check on them, even if you’re complete strangers. It’s happened to me, and I’ve done this for other people.)

These women literally stare at him for every shift of work he has, and they.....don’t do anything????

Karen WALKS IN ON HIM DRINKING CHLORINE. It actually took me the second watch-through to realize what he was doing in that storage room, and god, my heart just broke. It’s the only time we actually see a glimpse of Billy making himself flayed like the others. It’s so fleeting (maybe because we already get so much pain from his plot, and we do see what happens with the other flayed people) but it’s also one of the reasons, I think, that we have a whole fanbase ready and eager for his return.

We didn’t get a good glimpse of him poisoning himself to the point that he has to rely on the MindFlayer to stay alive. I’m not saying any of us want that, no way, but that’s my personal headcanon: in s2, Will was super protected and therefore capable of being separated from the Flayer. All of the Flayed IMMEDIATELY low-key drowned themselves in ice water to lower their temperature, and then chugged chemicals. They all die twice.

4. Billy. Just......Billy.

This poor boy’s plot was so pointless. It’s a special thing: creating such a good character and then doing fuck-all with him. The moment you realize his only purpose in season 2 was an introduction is....the beginning of a lot of disappointment. And no, he DIDN’T serve as an antagonist for Steve, because what happened? He slowed Steve down.

That’s it.

He doesn’t keep Steve from helping the kids in the tunnels. He doesn’t break him and Nancy up. He doesn’t gloriously out Steve’s bisexuality to the town by being his shameless lover.

He literally does nothing except just......be there? Looking gorgeous and providing a juxtaposing characterization for Max. That’s all. Billy’s treated like an accessory.

Then we arrive to season 3 and....I guess the only justification for his plot is sort of classic Greek tragic hero. He’s the new Keg King whose hubris makes him stand too long outside the warehouse, and thus, his downfall.

But here’s what’s wrong with that: Steve Harrington.

We were so spoiled with good writing for Steve. Steve had an incredibly refreshing and valid character AND redemption arc. Frankly, all the good writing goes to Steve in this show, so we expected the same writing to go to the other douche bag king of the show.

And we didn’t get it.

5. 80s Bullshit vs. Modern Audience

You can tell they’re trying to straddle the line between, “this is how people talked back then,” and, “this pertains to a modern audience.”

Example: Mike saying to Will, “It’s not my fault you don’t like girls.”

I know they did multiple takes of this scene with different variations of this line, and that’s the one the editors settled with. Regardless, I know I am not the only person who screeched with rainbow pride for Will’s sake. And it’s not the first time they’ve touched on very hot modern topics. Hopper touches on homophobia in season 1 - a fact I completely missed until I read an interview where the actor, David Harbor, mentions it, himself. Then I rewatched season 1 and realized, sure enough, he reacts poorly when Joyce tells him that Lonnie calls Will a f*g. It’s not even fatherly, “that should be my son, how dare he.” It’s straight up, “this kid might not be worth finding if he’s gay.”

Of course there’s the more obvious occasions where Steve calls Jonathan a queer and Neil Hargrove should come with his own neon trigger sign. Slut is a term that’s carelessly thrown around (as high schoolers are wont to do, sure).

But the thing that’s bothered me the most is Steve saying to Billy, “Were you dropped too much on your head as a child, or what?”

Maybe it’s just me being extremely sensitive to mental health stuff (also, WHY does Steve ironically get all the triggering lines? lol), plus he says it very soon after we finally know why Billy behaves the way he does. Just.....*long sigh*. I hurt, okay. Some parts of this show really hurt, and I don’t like “it was the 80s” as an excuse.

6. Lucas and Kali or, the Diversity Check Marks

One black kid. One. Then they gave him a sister. Cool. Somebody give these people BLM awards.

*eyes roll so hard my cat chases them across the floor*

You know what this reminds me of? The East Asian actor who trended in movies like The Goonies and Indiana Jones.

The only thing that even remotely makes this small drop of diversity okay, is that they made Lucas a major player in The Party, and cast a dope actress to be Erica Sinclair, and likewise made her a linchpin in the Scoops Troop plot.

But touching back to #5, you can’t use “it’s the 80s” as an excuse, nor can you say, “it’s white bread Indiana.”

BUT but but but Kali!!!!

You mean the character in one episode? Two, if you count the opening of season 2.

Listen. For all the bipoc folks who wonder, “Do white people realize how.....WHITE everything is?” as a white person, I can absolutely say: 

Yes. We. Do. Fucking. Notice.

• • • • •

Well. That’s all lol If you made it this far, I’m sorry and thanks lol 

Tip your artists and comment on fics because lord knows that where my seratonin comes from.

#ponder ponders #stranger things #billy hargrove #steve harrington #a sprinkling of #harringrove #i could probably find more things to nit pick #but these have been the biggest ones #might delete #rant

[doctors-star]

u want prompts? i am going to make shit up. how about trying to outrun a horse or piggy back rides for cowboys

“Well,” Finn says cheerfully, patting Johnny’s chest with the flat of his hand as though to reward him for good behaviour. “This may just be our dumbest idea yet.”

“Then we ain’t doin’ half bad,” Johnny objects, shifting Finn’s weight on his back as he carefully picks his way through the grasslands. In the half-dark of the moon and stars, the prairie is as a great aquamarine ocean of shifting blue-green grass that brushes against Finn’s dangling ankles as Johnny walks, and it has the curious edge of unfamiliarity and unreality in the night. Finn ain’t that heavy, and he knows the lands around Danser well enough not to be worried about getting lost, but it’s more than just the occasion that has him pressing hard for home - there’s a distinct undefined weird at play tonight, and he’s keen for familiar sights and sounds to ground him. Bitchin’ at Finn goes some way towards that. “If me carryin’ you through the night is our worst, we got a good ways to fall.”

“Oh, sure, and we’re gonna,” Finn says, still irrepressibly bright. “But we are tryin’ to outrun a horse, so. Although, I guess you’re outrunning the horse - I’m competing with the rider.”

Johnny considers, not for the first time, the merits of dropping Finn, and finds them barely insufficiently compelling. “You’re being the horse next time,” he grunts.

“Never fear,” Finn says smugly and ruffles Johnny’s hair now that he’s too pinned down to wriggle angrily away - Johnny does toss his head crossly, but this just makes him stumble. “Next time we have to run for it on foot in the night on account of how everything’s gone wildly tits up and Ainsel’s accidentally made off with our horses, you can stick your foot in a gopher hole and I’ll carry ya home.”

“Too kind,” Johnny grumbles absently, pausing to make use of a small rise and reacquaint himself with his surroundings. The desert falls off to the south, the trees forming a sharp dark line to the north and east, and somewhere between ‘em, Danser. And, god willing, Ainsel and Tommy with the horses, Will with his bag of bandages, and Noel with some helpful words of severe disapproval. No matter what Johnny had said about having yet further to fall - this displayed a level of ineptitude Noel was not, exactly, going to love.

“We’ll have more cover in the trees,” Finn points out rather more seriously.

Johnny makes a face. “Too dark - ain’t no sense in us both busting our ankles and falling in the creek in the dark.”

Finn pauses, like he’s weighing the truth of that against how funny he reckons it’d be, but concedes the point. “Desert’s a bit exposed, though,” he says, sounding resigned.

“Yeah,” Johnny says slowly, and not without confusion, as he continues down the rise and on through the grass. He shifts Finn on his back again - all right, maybe Finn is kinda heavy, or at least, his weight is wearing on Johnny - and there’s a rustle in the grass on the tree-side of them. Johnny doesn’t figure it’s much they gotta worry about: coney maybe, or gopher come out to ogle the humans outta their natural habitat - but Finn flinches away from it like he reckons the gophers have all gone rabid, or something. “I figured we’d keep going in the prairie grass ‘til we hit town.”

Finn fidgets awkwardly and nearly sends them both arse over elbow until Johnny works a hand free and smacks him quickly on the thigh. “I just-” he begins awkwardly, giving off the impression that it is only a great deal of effort that is keeping him from fidgeting. “I don’t much wanna be on prairie lands after dark, y’know.”

Johnny does not know. “I don’t wanna be out here either,” he says, bewildered. “That’s why we’re heading on home.”

“Oh, sure,” Finn says, like he’d kinda forgotten that they were desperadoes on the run, “but - I don’t wanna be here, specifically. Desert’d be fine.”

“‘Cept how we’d be shot for morons without any cover,” Johnny points out, not very gently. He twists his head awkwardly and manages a good squint at Finn’s cheekbone and a crick in his neck. “What’s eatin’ you, huh? You ain’t never gone off the prairie before.”

“Hayfever?” Finn tries.

“So help me God, Finn, I’ll drop you.”

Finn clings a little tighter, ankle flinching away from the floor. “Awright, jeez. It’s just-” he sighs massively, breath gusting down Johnny’s neck like the touch of a ghost and making him shiver. “I don’t wanna come across the Coyote.”

Johnny shifts Finn’s weight again and ignores the twinge in his back, pressing on along his straight line across the grasses to the faint lights of the town. “Coyotes aren’t that dangerous. Will says-”

“Not coyotes,” Finn corrects, “the Coyote. He, uh, might not want me hanging around long after dark. Not my patch,” he says, as if that’s cleared everything up.

Johnny raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got a feud with a coyote that’s landed you a curfew?”

“No-o,” Finn says carefully. “It’s not that bad. But. We might be better off in the desert.”

“Did you hear me about the gettin’ shot thing?” Johnny snaps, a bit louder than he had meant to. And then he stumbles forward a few more steps, emerging into a bizarre clearing of grass which he definitely had not seen from the little hill, or even one step before landing in it - this perfect circle of mown-short grass. Sitting in the middle of it is a coyote.

It tilts its head on one side.

Finn offers a sharp, nervous grin. “Technically,” he says to the coyote, “I am not on the prairie. So.”

The coyote does not so much as blink.

Johnny reckons he might be in over his head more than a little. “Desert, you said,” he declares firmly and begins trekking south.

Finn does not relax. There is a rustling noise behind them - quite a lot like the sound of a coyote following them through the grass. Johnny attempts to pick up the pace.

“I am sorry about this,” Finn says conversationally. “But can you go any faster.”

“Nope,” Johnny puffs. “You’re fuckin’ heavy.” He manages a slight increase in speed, which the coyote matches easily, and nearly trips over his own feet for it. This had not been so difficult when they’d started out - Finn seems to be getting heavier by the second, like every inch of him is slowly turning to lead.

It reminds him of a warm day when he wasn’t quite grown, but wasn’t a boy either - there had been an accident, and his Uncle Jack had died, and he was tall enough to be one of the men carrying the coffin. If, and only if, he could contain his excitement at being considered one of the men, said his mother, for long enough to behave decently, jeez. So he’d wrangled himself into solemn calm and taken up his place behind his father, and lifted when told to - and he remembers thinking, dang, why’d we need six men? Uncle Jack isn’t heavy at all. Until they’d started walking, and then Johnny had been glad of the others - but still, not too bad. But they’d kept walking. And kept walking. And by the time they’d reached the church his arms were shaking and his breath came fast and he couldn’t put Uncle Jack down fast enough, the corpse’s limbs all slowly petrifying and dragging them all down, inexorably, inevitably, into the dust.

Finn is heavy as a dead body on his back.

It is suddenly less difficult to push those last yards and hurl them both over the boundary, into the dirt. Finn is thrown from his back and rolls neatly; instinctively he tries to stand, and crumples into a small ball of hissed curses as his ankle makes itself known. Johnny himself manages to control his stumble to his knees and scramble backwards away from the grassland. He watches a black nose press through the leaves, white-glowing eyes the only thing visible in the shadows; after a considering sniff, all melt away. There is no sound, but he no longer feels eyes on him - and then there is a barking call far to the north, and the pound of hoofbeats drumming through the earth under his palms heading for the disruption, and then nothing.

He turns, very politely and calmly, to Finn. “What the fuck was that?”

Finn waves a hand dismissively. “You don’t want to know. But he’ll probably hold ‘em off for a while, as long as it’s fun to do it - we should keep goin’, though.”

“No no no-” Johnny says firmly, holding up one hand. “This - weird shit has gone on long enough. What in the god damn hell just happened to us?”

Finn narrows his eyes and tilts his head to squint thoughtfully at Johnny. In the darkness, sprawled out at the foot of the desert with limbs in every direction and propped up on his elbows, he nonetheless looks strangely alert - as though he might at any moment leap onto his twisted ankle and outdance the devil to keep them both safe. For all that the desert leaves them exposed, Johnny feels safer here than he did in amongst the prairie grasses, the same way a man feels safe from wolves behind a stock fence, for all that wolves can jump. This space has been demarcated, somehow, and called Finn’s, and Johnny don’t reckon anything else is going to come in and mess with that.

“Alright,” Finn says eventually, still with that considering tilt. “This town ain’t what you think it is. There are more things in heaven and earth, Johnny McPherson, than you ever dreamed of. There’s magic in these hills, in them stars above, in you - like as not - and definitely in me. Ainsel pretty much isn’t anything else. Sold his soul to them devilish fae.” Finn spreads his palms to the night and Johnny feels it pressing close like a crowd of people, wrapping him in the tangible darkness of a shroud, the cloying earth of the grave. “But this night - in this place - is mine. And nothing out here can hold me,” he says, eyes fixed on Johnny and black-dark in the moonlight, “not on my lands. No-one can touch me; nothing can stop me in any way that matters. Why should I fear the grave, Jonathan Elmer McPherson, when I’ve known it already? I felt its touch and it could not keep me. I am master of Danser Town, and I am chained to it like a dog. A dead-and-alive dog, black as shadow an’ the world beyond the end, and there ain’t none as can move you on without my say so. You, Jonathan Elmer McPherson,” Finn says, with a grin as cold as hard iron and as pointedly canine as a wolf - it sets Johnny’s teeth on edge, makes him shiver under his skin, makes the soles of his feet tingle with the urge to run like he’s being stabbed by a hundred tiny needles but he can’t move can’t run can’t look away from Finn’s terrible black eyes and shining silvered teeth - “you are my little lamb.” Finn raises an eyebrow in amusement. “And I will look after you.”

The desert is horribly silent for a moment. Johnny’s toes dig into the dirt. A breeze strokes through the hair at the back of his neck, and he shivers

“Well, you ain’t gotta pull my leg,” Johnny grouses, indignant more than cross. “I was only askin’.”

Finn snorts inelegantly and throws his head back to howl with laughter at the moon. Johnny feels around for a pebble and bounces it neatly off Finn’s drawn-up knee.

“An’ how come you know my middle name, anyhow?” he says, pushing up onto his feet to glower down at Finn as he snorts and tries to get his breath back under his control. “You been writin’ to my momma, or what?”

Finn unfurls, still wheezing slightly, and Johnny hauls him up onto his good foot. “Aw, never you change,” he tells Johnny fondly. “Anyhow, someone’s gotta know what gets written on your headstone. Gee up.”

“Oughtta leave you here,” Johnny grumbles, bracing for Finn’s weight. The man ain’t quite so heavy now - or not yet - Johnny reckons maybe he’d just needed a rest. They ought to make Danser, no trouble. “I thought I was a lamb, not a horse.”

“Nah,” Finn says with confidence. “I’m the lamb. You can be Saint John the Baptist.”

“I ain’t got the patience.”

“You out-walked a horse with marvellous patience,” Finn points out cheerfully. “And, as Saint John, you get to dunk me in a river and claim it was for the good of my soul.”

“Oh.” Johnny tilts his head and shift’s Finn’s weight on his back as they set out once more for home. “Well, when you put it like that.”

#was this what you were expecting #johnny with confidence: weird shit just doesn't happen round here. that'd be weird. #finn: 😬👍 #morons all. #okay NOW i don't have any prompts in my inbox. i certainly expect this to remain ever so. #a town called danser

[frodos-bizarre-adventure]

@gingerreggg thanks for the appreciation! TnT

Heads Up- Part 14 (Joseph x Bust! Caesar)

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

"Is that necessary?" Suzi complained, as Joseph placed a motion sensor on the table next to Caesar. "And where did you get that, even?"

Joseph grinned his characteristic smirk. "It's to keep the neighborhood kids from messing with my bike. I have to leave it outside cause I don't have a garage..."

"You sure are prepared for everything, Jojo!" she giggled.

Joseph always had the knack for expecting the unexpected, ever since they were kids. Perhaps that could partly explain why Joseph got used to having a talking art project so quickly. How he made it look so normal.

"Okay, Caesar. We're gonna have to get you to not move, not one twitch!" Joseph instructed him. "If you move even the slightest bit, this alarm goes off."

Caesar blinked, and the sensor immediately began to beep.

"Sorry bout that," Caesar apologized.

"You don't need to blink, don't you?" Joseph asked as he reset the sensor.

"It's a force of habit!" Caesar said defensively. "I know I don't even have any tear ducts but it's a reflex! Maybe Anthonio used to blink!"

"Of course he did, he was human," Suzi said.

It struck Joseph as odd that Caesar referred to Anthonio as someone else.

Did he not consider himself Anthonio? Or at least, not anymore? Suzi did, after all, say Caesar was less of a ghost, and more of a reincarnation. Maybe he'd found a new identity.

Maybe he'd found a new purpose.

The entire situation intrigued Joseph. "Say, Suzi, about those Mesoamerican lore of yours..." he asked, "How exactly do those 'spirit guardians' work?"

Suzi laughed. "You're really curious about all this, aren't you?"

Joseph shrugged. "I suppose."

"Hmm. Well, it says here in these old texts, that most spirit guardians were ancestors that returned to the mortal plane, when summoned by those in need, to act as a guardian angel of sorts."

"Heh! Guardian angel you say?" scoffed Caesar. "I'm just a goddamn head."

Suzi shot him an annoyed look and continued on. "Anyway, it's said that these new beings were usually a 'predescessor' of some way. Not necessarily by blood, per se, but by legacy-- say, a warrior could summon a spirit of a warrior before them, or a scientist that of an old philosopher..."

"...and I suppose Anthonio was a sculptor who sought to carry on his legacy in you."

"Then why don't I remember being Anthonio, then?" Caesar retorted.

"Because, Caesar," Suzi said, "the wisdom of the past is tainted with the memories, the identities of those who experience them. I can never be too sure, of course," she shrugged, "but I feel it's made that way to pass on their wisdom to a new worthy successor to their legacy-- yet from a whole new perspective unclouded by their own beliefs. So that Joseph's art would be inspired by Anthonio's, but still be Joseph's own."

Joseph laughed at the irony. "Like how I copied...er, based, Caesar's face off on the statue Anthonio made...which he'd actually based on his own face."

Destiny sometimes did strange twists to absurd results.

"Alright, let's do this one more time!" Joseph said, replacing the motion sensor.

--------

Day by day Caesar practiced standing still. Trying to look like a perfectly ordinary, non-living sculpture. Trying not to blink, or move reflexively, just staring vacantly into nothingness like the lifeless figure he originally was.

It helped that Caesar's eyes never felt dry, even without blinking, they were clay, after all. It didn't hurt, or feel very uncomfortable, but it did make him nervous.

But he fought said feelings, because he knew it was all for Joseph.

He was doing it for the person he loved the most. After all the things Joseph had done to make his life a happy one, this was the best way for Caesar to pay him back.

By serving his original purpose as Joseph's grand masterpiece.

And it was enough to motivate him to try his damned hardest.

"And that's eight hours!" Joseph exclaimed, checking his stopwatch. Caesar had managed to keep still without triggering the beeping of the motion sensor for a record period of time.

"You can relax now, Caesar. Eight hours is all we need."

Caesar blinked and sighed.

"See, you could do it!" Joseph encouraged. "Eight hours each day for two days. Enough for the gallery to hold you on exhibit, and have the judges grade you. And then, hopefully, I graduate and get to have you back."

"You promise?" Caesar asked, in almost a pleading tone.

"I'll try my hardest to get you back," Joseph told him, his mind lingering on the faint possibility that Caesar might be selected for permanent display.

Joseph used to want to make a sculpture so exquisitely defined that it would be put up there in the gallery, alongside those of the greatest artists, forever. How strange that he now wanted the opposite.

He'd made Caesar far too beautiful, and because of this he risked losing him.

"Say, about that thing you said earlier?" Suzi told Joseph. "You based him off an old sculpture by Anthonio, didn't you?"

"I mean, it wasn't a painted statue, so I doubt they'd see the similarities with Caesar all colored and all." Joseph added with his usual mischievous grin.

"Still, he does look a little plain," Suzi pondered, as she looked at the bust from different angles. "We ought to spice him up a little!"

"Oh great," Caesar complained. "More dress-ups."

Suzi pulled out a handful of ribbons, scarves and other accessories and began trying out a bunch of styles to make Caesar look more striking-- and hopefully disguise him from anyone who would suspect Joseph stole the design.

A bowler hat, necktie and a monocle. "This is stupid," Caesar grumbled.

A masquerade feather headdress and a colorful bead necklace. "Hell no," complained Caesar again.

A magenta beanie hat, heart sunglasses and a short shawl. "Are you kidding me?" Caesar cried irately.

But there was one set of gear that made an impact on Caesar, when Suzi put them on.

A headband, designed with a zigzagged line between orange and violet, with a pair of prominent white feathers on each of the temples, and a soft, pink scarf to complete the look.

Caesar opened his mouth to complain, and quickly shut it again as soon as he saw his reflection.

He...actually kind of liked this one.

"Say, that actually suits you well," Joseph said.

"I think so too," Caesar smiled, pivoting slightly on his neck base to see his reflection from another angle.

"So it's settled then?" Joseph asked. "You'll be wearing that to the exhibit?"

"Sure," Caesar agreed. "Anything that won't make you look like a ripoff."

Joseph smiled. He admired Caesar's getup: with the scarf and the headband, he looked positively divine. He looked lovelier than he'd ever had.

He knew that the judges would absolutely like him.

He just hoped they wouldn't like him enough to take him away.

-------

It wasn't long before the day of the exhibit, of Joseph's graduation, was close at hand.

Sleep came little to the troubled artist, as he lay on his bed, his eyes blankly fixed onto the ceiling. The room's only light came from a harsh, white table lamp.

It was three days, before he had to prove himself to the world.

To his mother, Professor Lisa, that he was worthy of her respect.

And to the legacy of his late grandfather, Jonathan, who had been his inspiration, as a child, to become an artist in the first place.

Joseph imagined his grandfather watching him from the stars, invisible but ever present. If only he could see him now. If only he could tell what he'd have thought of him.

His mind drifted back to Suzi's quote, about the spirit guardians being the souls of those who came before. To pass on their legacy.

He couldn't help but imagine. What if Grandpa Jonathan himself had possessed his project bust? He giggled at the thought of his beloved grandpa as a talking, bouncing clay sculpture.

But yet fate seemed to have chose Anthonio Zeppeli to be his guide.

There must have been something special about him that he needed to pass on.

Or maybe, it was just Anthonio himself being perfect for him. Strange that they had to meet in such an improbable way.

He was different now, reborn as another person entirely. Another person that Joseph adored the way he was. Body or no body.

Thinking about Caesar made Joseph's heart thump hard within his chest. Why did he feel this way? To a figure he created? Was it weird? Was it wrong?

And yet as he listened to the steady drum of his own heartbeat, he decided that no, it seemed like nothing felt more right. Caesar was his.

It was then Joseph realized that the steady thumps were getting louder. He first feared there was, perhaps, something wrong with his cardiac rhythm. But then he felt there was another source, that seemed to be coming from outside.

And as Joseph turned his head to look, right on cue, Caesar came bouncing into his room.

In the dim light, Joseph marveled at his bizarre, surreal beauty as he hopped across the floor, still clad in the headband and the scarf that he'd come to enjoy wearing.

Somehow, as ridiculous, slow and clumsy as his only mode of transportation was, Caesar looked oddly majestic.

The vigor and strength with which he pushed his neck against the floor with each hop. The gracefulness as his head turned upward at the highest point of each jump, his headband's feathers fluttering almost like tiny wings. The way his torso stump flexed as it barely cleared the floor with each little forward bounce. And of course, the sheer look of focused determination displayed on Caesar's face as he made his way toward the bed.

He was scarcely even half a man, but his spirit had the strength of many.

To even move his clay form along the distance from kitchen to bedroom took considerable effort, without the aid of arms and legs. And yet Caesar made it work. Caesar made the impossible possible. In spite of his tremendous handicap, he learned to persevere, to overcome.

And maybe Joseph realized why he admired Caesar so much.

Not just with his gorgeous, colorful clay exterior, but with the soul within, burning so bright with passion and determination, despite all odds that barred his way.

Perhaps this was why they were fated to meet.

"Jojo, you awake?" Caesar said, snapping Joseph out of his admiring stupor.

"Huh, yeah, I am now," Joseph mumbled. "What's the matter?"

Caesar looked downward, sadly. "I just feel lonely."

"And next you'll say, 'Can I sleep on your bed tonight, Jojo?' huh?" Joseph smirked.

"Can I sleep on your bed tonight, Jo--" Caesar began to say, before realizing it. "Huh? How did you know--?"

Joseph laughed warmly. "You don't even need to say it, Cae. You're always welcome with me. Anytime."

Gently, he lifted the bust up from the floor. By now, his heavy weight now felt familiar and no longer burdensome. He gently laid Caesar onto the pillow next to him, and, removing his scarf and headband and placing them onto his bedside table, lovingly laid a blanket over Caesar's stubby torso.

With his body, or lack thereof, covered by a quilt, Caesar looked less like a sculpture and more like Joseph's very own, perfectly typical roommate.

Joseph laid back down onto the bed, gently embracing what little body Caesar had, warmly and tenderly underneath the covers.

"Goodnight, Caesar," he said, resting his head against Caesar's soft, warm clay body.

"Goodnight too, Jojo," he responded, as he closed his eyes for the night.

Artist and artwork fondly embraced, within the dimly lit room without anyone else to witness. Suzi was at her home today. It was just him and Caesar, together alone, gently feeling each other's gentle warmth in a fleeting yet sincere moment, as rest soon enveloped their tired minds.

A fleeting yet sincere moment that Joseph wasn't sure he'd get to have again.

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